Pediatric ER. Former college friend of your ex-wife. One of the last people who still speaks to you without calculation.
“Ethan?” she says. “Please tell me this isn’t one of your annual surprise calls where you donate a wing to absolve your conscience.”
“I found a kid on the side of Highway 10 with an infant in a backpack.”
There is one beat of silence, then her voice changes entirely. “How old?”
“Girl is maybe twelve. Baby under six months, I think. Heat exposure. Dehydration. Barefoot. They both need help.”
“Bring them to St. Mary’s East entrance. I’ll meet you there. And Ethan?”
“Yeah?”
“Drive like hell.”
You do.
The Mercedes eats up the highway while the desert blurs gold and rust outside the windows. In the rearview mirror you watch Addie watching everything at once, every exit sign, every passing truck, every movement of your shoulders, as if preparing for the second your story stops matching your face. Lily has stopped crying, which frightens you more than the crying did. You keep talking, because silence feels dangerous.
“Addie, did someone hurt you?”
No answer.
“Are your parents looking for you?”
Her chin lifts with a toughness so old it should not exist in a child. “Not the kind that cares.”
“Who’s chasing you?”
She looks down at Lily. “My stepdad.”
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