I said I was en route.
I did not argue.
Arguments are what people do when there is time.
I hit my lights and drove toward Mile Marker 84.
The closer I got, the less the camera image felt like an image.
It became a problem with weight.
It became a child with bare feet on cold concrete.
It became the terrible question every cop learns to hear under dispatch chatter.
What if everyone else is wrong?
By the time I reached the overpass, the ledge was empty.
That was almost worse.
The wind hit the side of my cruiser as soon as I opened the door.
The cold went straight through my uniform collar.
Below me, diesel engines screamed under the bridge, one after another, the sound rising and falling with the traffic.
My spotlight dragged across the guardrail, the concrete support pillars, the frost-crusted grass, the shoulder, the ditch.
No child.
No footprints visible from where I stood.
No crying.
