But inside me, something went cold and hard.
Whoever had pinned that note to the baby was not leaving a prank.
They were leaving a warning.
I moved fast after that.
I got the little girl into the shade of the open cruiser door, laid her on the cleanest towel I had, and went back for her brother.
The boy’s eyelids fluttered once.
Barely.
His hand opened and closed against the dirty cardboard like he was reaching for something he did not have the strength to find.
I slid both hands under him and lifted.
He was hotter than she was.
That is what I remember most about him.
How impossible it seemed that a body so small could hold that much heat.
I clipped the radio from my shoulder.
“Dispatch, I need medical. Now. Two infants, severe heat exposure, Route 66 shoulder. Cruiser dashcam has the location marker.”
My voice did not sound like mine.
