I pulled up to the curb at Washington Park. The place looked desolate, like a black-and-white photograph of the end of the world. The streetlights buzzed overhead, flickering against the wind, casting long, eerie shadows across the playground equipment. The swings were swaying violently, their chains clanking against the metal poles—a lonely, metallic sound that cut through the wind.
I scanned the area through the windshield, squinting against the glare of the snow.
And then I saw it.
The bench.
It was exactly where the caller said it would be, right near the path the plows would take in a few hours. If the plows came through, they would bury anything on that bench under six feet of hard-packed ice.
The object was covered in a mound of snow, shaped vaguely like a heap of discarded clothes. From the warmth of my car, it looked like nothing. Just a lump. Maybe someone had cleaned out a closet and been too lazy to find a dumpster. Maybe it was a prank.
I hesitated. My hand hovered over the gear shift. I could just call it in as “unfounded.” I could say I checked it and it was just trash. I could drive away and be in my warm bed in thirty minutes. Who would know?
But the nagging instinct in the back of my head—the one that had kept me alive on this job for fifteen years—poked me hard in the ribs.
Check it, the voice whispered. Get out and check it, Jack.
I cursed under my breath. I grabbed my heavy Maglite flashlight and shoved the door open.
The wind hit me like a physical punch. It screamed in my ears, stealing the breath right out of my lungs. It stung my exposed face instantly, making my eyes water and freeze in the corners. I crunched through the snow, my heavy boots sinking deep into the drifts.
“Police!” I called out, purely out of habit.
My voice was swallowed instantly by the howling wind. It sounded weak, pathetic against the roar of the storm.
No answer. Just the sound of the trees groaning under the weight of the ice.
I reached the bench. Up close, the “trash” looked even more like just a pile of refuse. It was an old, oversized blue parka, stiff with frost, piled on top of what looked like a wool blanket. Snow had drifted over the folds, cementing it to the wood of the bench.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered to myself, shaking my head. “People will dump anything anywhere.”
I reached out with my gloved hand to brush the snow away. I intended to grab the bundle, toss it in the trunk, and throw it in the precinct dumpster so I could go home.
My hand made contact with the parka.
I stopped.
It wasn’t soft like loose clothes. It was solid.
And then… it trembled.
My heart skipped a beat. I froze, the hair on the back of my neck standing up against the collar of my uniform. Wind or not, piles of laundry don’t tremble.
I quickly brushed away more snow, digging frantically now, my breath coming in short, panicked bursts of steam. I grabbed the edge of the stiff hood of the parka and pulled it back.
I gasped, stumbling back a step in the snow.
Two terrified, wide blue eyes were staring up at me.
It was a boy.
He couldn’t have been more than five years old. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and his lips were a terrifying shade of blue. He wasn’t moving. He was barely breathing. He was curled into the tightest fetal position I had ever seen, trying to make himself as small as possible to conserve whatever heat he had left.
But he wasn’t alone.
Clutched tightly in his freezing arms, tucked inside the oversized jacket against his chest, was a golden retriever puppy. The dog was shivering violently, its small whimpers lost in the wind, frantically licking the boy’s icy chin.
“Oh my god,” I whispered, the horror of the situation crashing down on me. The realization of how close I had come to driving away made me nauseous.
I didn’t think. I didn’t follow protocol. I ripped my own heavy patrol jacket off in seconds, disregarding the biting cold hitting my uniform shirt. I wrapped it around them—boy, puppy, and the frozen blanket all at once.
I scooped them up. They were lighter than they should have been. Far too light.
As I lifted him, a piece of paper fluttered from the folds of the blanket. It was pinned to his chest with a rusted safety pin. I grabbed it before the wind could take it, clutching it in my fist as I ran.
I sprinted back to the cruiser, slipping on the ice, my lungs burning. I threw the back door open and laid them on the seat, then jumped into the front. I cranked the heat to the absolute max, until the vents were roaring.
I grabbed the radio, my voice shaking in a way it hadn’t since my rookie year.
“Dispatch! I need EMS at my location immediately! I have a juvenile male, severe hypothermia! Possible cardiac arrest! Rush it!”
“Copy 4-Alpha, EMS is…”
“No!” I screamed, cutting her off. “I’m not waiting! I’m transporting! Clear the roads to St. Mary’s! I’m coming in hot!”
I threw the car into gear, tires spinning on the slick asphalt before gripping. While I drove with one hand, I reached back with the other, rubbing the boy’s legs, trying to generate friction.
“Stay with me, buddy,” I yelled, looking at him in the rearview mirror. “You stay with me!”
His eyes were drifting shut. The puppy was barking now, a high-pitched, panicked sound. At a red light, I looked down at the crumpled note still clutched in my hand. I smoothed it out against the steering wheel. The handwriting was jagged, hurried, smeared with what looked like tear stains.
It read:
“I’m sorry. I have no home. I have no money. I can’t feed them anymore. Please don’t separate them. His name is Leo. The dog is Barnaby. God forgive me.”
I looked back at Leo. His head lulled to the side.
I slammed my foot on the gas, blowing through the intersection.
Chapter 3: The Longest Mile
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