At 12:37 p.m., my cruiser camera was still pointed at the shoulder.
At 12:38 p.m., my left hand was under that baby’s head, and my right hand was shaking so badly I had to close it once before I could move again.
People think emergency work is bravery.
Most days, it is paperwork, radio codes, incident numbers, and forcing your hands to do what your heart is begging them not to feel.
I pressed the little girl against my vest and turned toward the cruiser.
I was ready to call it in.
I was ready to scream into the radio if that was what it took.
That was when something scratched against my forearm.
I looked down.
Pinned to the front of the little girl’s shirt, directly over her hollow little chest, was a piece of lined notebook paper.
One rusted safety pin held it there.
The paper was crumpled, stained, and warped stiff in places, like someone had cried over it and then the desert had dried it hard.
