Trafficking is a word most wealthy Americans keep filed under documentaries and charity galas. Something terrible, yes, but somewhere else. Someone else’s nightmare. But it is here now, with hospital wristbands and one child asleep under white blankets.
“Addie overheard him on the phone,” Naomi says quietly. “He was trying to sell the baby.”
You stand so fast the chair legs scrape the floor.
“No.”
“That’s what she said.”
You pace once across the room, then back. There are some truths so vile the mind rejects them on contact. Not because they are rare, but because they are common enough to reveal a structural failure in the human soul.
“She took Lily and ran in the middle of the night,” Naomi continues. “She’s been hiding for two days. Gas stations, drainage ditches, an abandoned fruit stand. She put the baby in the backpack because her arms gave out.”
You press a hand to your mouth.
“And before you say it, yes, we have to call law enforcement.”
Addie had known that all along. The knowledge sits in your stomach like a stone.
“She begged me not to,” you say.
“I know. But Ethan, if her story is true, this is bigger than a runaway case.”
You look through the narrow window in the door toward the pediatric wing. “If we call the wrong people and that man finds them first?”
Naomi’s gaze hardens. “Then we do not call the wrong people.”
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