The letters leaned hard to the right.
The last one dragged down the page as if the writer’s hand had slipped.
But it was there.
Not printed.
Signed.
A signature is different from a clue.
A clue can be accidental.
A signature is a person saying, I was here, and I am terrified enough to leave proof.
We photographed the box from every angle.
We documented the duct tape, the position on the shoulder, the cruiser dashcam timestamp, the safety pins, the torn scrap, and the pressure marks on the flap.
We logged the paper as recovered evidence.
We called ahead to the hospital.
The babies went through intake under temporary identifiers because nobody on that roadside knew their real names.
Twin A.
Twin B.
That is how bureaucracy begins when love has failed or danger has chased love into hiding.
Not with names.
With labels.
I followed the ambulance as far as procedure allowed, then went back to the station with dust still on my pants and the smell of that box stuck in the back of my throat.
