For a second, I wondered if it was a sick joke—someone who’d heard about the incident on the police scanner and decided to be cruel. My hands were still shaking from the cold, my clothes soaked through, my teeth chattering as the heater blasted hot air.
But then another message came through.
“He wasn’t supposed to live.”I felt the blood drain from my face.
I looked back at the boy.
He couldn’t have been more than six. His feet were red and raw from the ice, his hair plastered to his forehead, his small body wrapped in a school-issue blanket one of the deputies had grabbed. He was sipping hot chocolate from a paper cup, eyes huge, silent but alert.
The deputies were talking quietly near the front of the bus, coordinating with child services. Someone mentioned a missing child report. Another said something about a custody dispute.
My phone buzzed again.
“Put the phone down. Don’t show anyone.”
