Her arms were moving wildly over her head as trucks roared underneath her.
I had been a state trooper for twelve years by then.
I had seen people wave down help after rollovers, breakdowns, fights, and mistakes they were too ashamed to describe clearly.
This was not that.
This little girl was not waving like she needed attention.
She was waving like attention was the only thing standing between someone she loved and death.
The local precinct came over the radio first.
The officer sounded tired.
He said it was probably a runaway.
He said kids did stupid things when they were cold, scared, or looking for attention.
He said the camera feed made things look more dramatic than they were.
I remember looking at the clock on my dash.
4:14 a.m.
The cup holder rattled with an old paper coffee cup I had bought at a gas station forty minutes earlier.
The cruiser smelled like burnt coffee, damp vinyl, and the faint rubber scent of my gloves drying near the heater vent.
Outside, frost had silvered the shoulder of the road.
Children do not climb overpass ledges barefoot at four in the morning because they want attention.
