The boy was weaker, but improving.
I stood in the station hallway with one hand against the wall and closed my eyes.
No one said anything to me for a minute.
They knew better.
Later, when I saw them through the nursery glass, they looked impossibly small under clean blankets.
No cardboard.
No tape.
No dust in their hair.
Just two babies with hospital bands around their ankles and monitors keeping time beside them.
The girl opened her mouth like she might cry.
This time, she had enough strength to do it.
I never thought a crying baby could sound like mercy.
But that one did.
The investigation did what investigations do.
It moved slower than fear and faster than comfort.
Reports came in.
Statements were taken.
Footage was pulled.
The note was compared.
The torn scrap was preserved.
The pressure marks on the cardboard were photographed under angled light.
