The sun rose over Chicago on Wednesday morning, a blinding, indifferent sphere of light reflecting off the millions of tons of snow that had buried the city. The temperature had risen to a balmy five degrees above zero.
I hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours.
I was sitting in a plastic chair outside Room 402 in the ICU. This was Elena Rodriguez’s room.
Down the hall, in the Pediatric ICU, Leo was stable. Dr. Evans had performed a miracle. The boy had lost two toes to frostbite, and his lungs were weak, but he was alive. Barnaby, the golden retriever, was currently the most popular resident of the pediatric ward, smuggled in and out of the room by nurses who had suddenly decided that “therapy dog protocols” could be interpreted very loosely.
But Room 402 was different.
Outside the door stood a uniformed officer. Not me. A rookie from the day shift.
Elena was under arrest.
Technically, she hadn’t been booked yet because she was intubated, but the charges were already drafted. Child Endangerment. Child Abandonment. Reckless Conduct.
I rubbed my face with my hands, feeling the grit of stubble and exhaustion.
“Jack.”
I looked up. It was Detective Harris. He was a good cop, by the book. He held a clipboard.
“You need to go home, Miller,” Harris said gently. “We got it from here. She’s waking up soon. Once the tube is out, we have to Mirandize her and take a statement.”
I stood up, my joints popping. “She’s not a criminal, Harris.”
Harris sighed, tapping the pen against the clipboard. “Jack, she left a five-year-old boy on a park bench in sub-zero weather. I don’t care what her sob story is. That’s a felony. If you hadn’t found him… we’d be looking at a homicide investigation right now.”
“But I did find him,” I argued, my voice rising. “Because she put him where I would find him. She put him in the path of the plows, yes, but also right in front of the richest lady on the block who calls 911 if a squirrel trespasses. She watched until the lights came on. She didn’t leave until she knew he was seen.”
“That’s a defense attorney’s argument, not a cop’s,” Harris said sternly. “You’re too close to this. Go home.”
I didn’t go home.
I went to the hospital cafeteria, bought a stale bagel, and waited.
Two hours later, the text came from Dr. Evans. Tube is out. She’s awake.
I bypassed Harris and the rookie and walked straight into the room before they could stop me.
Elena looked small in the hospital bed. Her dark hair was matted, her skin sallow. Her wrists were handcuffed to the bedrails.
When she saw me—my uniform, my badge—she flinched. Tears instantly welled in her eyes.
“Leo,” she croaked. Her voice was destroyed from the intubation. “Where is Leo?”
“He’s alive,” I said quickly, stepping close to the bed. “He’s safe. He’s down the hall. He’s warm. The dog is with him.”
She let out a sound that was half-sob, half-scream. She slumped back against the pillows, closing her eyes. “Thank God. Oh, sweet Jesus, thank God.”
“Elena,” I said softy. “My name is Officer Jack Miller. I found him.”
Her eyes snapped open. She looked at me with a mix of gratitude and terror. “You… you found him?”
“I did. I read your note.”
She looked away, shame burning her face. “I didn’t have a choice. You have to believe me. The car ran out of gas. We were freezing. Leo stopped shivering. When they stop shivering… that’s when they die. I knew I couldn’t keep him warm anymore. I thought… if I leave him there, the police will come. They’ll take him to a warm place. They’ll feed him.”
“Why didn’t you just drive to the police station?” I asked.
“I tried,” she whispered. “The car died on 63rd. I walked the rest of the way to the park. I couldn’t carry him all the way to the precinct. I was too weak. I haven’t eaten in three days. I gave everything to him.”
She rattled the handcuffs. “Am I going to jail?”
“The detective outside thinks so,” I said honestly.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “As long as Leo is okay. You can lock me up forever. Just… please don’t let them put him in the system. Don’t let them separate him from Barnaby. That dog is his only friend.”
I looked at this woman. She had been willing to die—literally freeze to death alone in a tin can of a car—so her son could have a chance at a meal and a blanket.
That wasn’t a crime. That was the ultimate sacrifice. And the system was about to crush her for it.
The door opened. Detective Harris walked in. “Miller, out. Now.”
I looked at Elena. “I’m not going to let them take you,” I said.
“Jack!” Harris barked.
I walked out. But I wasn’t going home.
I went to my car. I grabbed my laptop.
I had the photos. I had the photo of Leo in the snow. I had the photo of the note. I had the photo of the rusted Honda Civic with the frosted windows.
I wasn’t supposed to release evidence. It was a fireable offense. It could cost me my pension. It could cost me my badge.
I looked at the hospital. I thought about the warmth of my own house, the food in my fridge.
I logged into Facebook.
I didn’t post it to the official police page. I posted it to my personal page, but I made it public.
I wrote the title: I Thought It Was Just A Pile Of Old Laundry…
I told the story. All of it. The note. The poverty. The failed system. The mother who chose death for herself to give life to her son.
I hit Post.
Then I turned off my phone, leaned my seat back, and closed my eyes.
Chapter 8: The Avalanche
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