Then it sank all the way down.
Mason.
Little brother.
Hidden deeper in the concrete pipe while his sister stood barefoot on an overpass trying to flag down semi-trucks because somebody had made her believe noise could get him buried farther away.
For one ugly heartbeat, I wanted to climb back up that slope and find whoever had taught her those words.
I wanted to forget procedure.
I wanted to forget body cameras, reports, restraint, and every calm sentence they train into you until your own heartbeat sounds like a violation.
Instead, I breathed once through my nose.
Then again.
I kept the flashlight angled down.
“Grace,” I said, “I won’t shine it on him unless I need to help him. But I need you to tell me if he’s breathing.”
Her eyes flicked behind her.
“He’s cold.”
“Is he awake?”
“Sometimes.”
That word scared me more than screaming would have.
Sometimes.
I pressed my radio mic without lifting my eyes from her.
“Dispatch, I need EMS staged at Mile Marker 84 under the overpass. Possible juvenile exposure. Second child in drainage pipe. Start additional units quietly.”
Quietly mattered.
