Her sweatshirt hung off one shoulder.
Her hair was plastered to her cheeks in dark wet strings.
Both of her hands were locked behind her back, as if she was hiding something from the light.
I lowered my voice.
“Hey, sweetheart. I’m not here to hurt you.”
She did not blink.
My radio cracked once, and she jerked so violently that her shoulder hit the pipe wall.
I reached up and turned the volume down.
Then I held out my hand with the palm open, keeping my badge turned away so the reflection would not hit her eyes.
“I’m Trooper Harris,” I said. “You’re safe right now.”
Her lips moved.
No sound came out at first.
Then she whispered, “Are they coming back for me yet?”
I have heard grown men beg for their mothers.
I have heard parents make sounds that did not seem human beside wrecked cars.
Nothing ever cut through me like that question.
Not, am I safe?
Not, can I go home?
Are they coming back for me yet?
As if coming back was guaranteed.
As if the only variable was whether I had arrived before them.
I told her nobody was taking her anywhere.
