« Unit 14, met het verzoek om onmiddellijke medische hulp! Ik heb een kind in kritieke toestand op 1623 Maple Lane! Ik herhaal, kind in kritieke toestand! Stuur nu een ambulance! »
Tom raakte zachtjes haar voorhoofd aan en merkte dat het brandde van de koorts. « Het komt goed, lieverd. Er komt hulp. » Zijn stem, een instrument dat hij decennialang had gebruikt om te bevelen en te controleren, brak met een emotie die hij zichzelf in jaren niet had laten voelen. Hij paste haar houding zorgvuldig aan en merkte de ruwe, geschaafde vlekken rond haar polsen en de alarmerende dunheid van haar armen op.
De lippen van het meisje bewogen, maar er kwam geen geluid uit. « Probeer niet te praten. Spaar je kracht. » Tom trok zijn jas uit en sloeg hem om haar heen, vechtend tegen een golf van verdriet en woede.
« Kun je me je naam vertellen, schat? » vroeg hij zachtjes, zijn stem een zacht gerommel.
Haar gebarsten lippen gingen weer uit elkaar, maar alleen een gefluister van lucht ontsnapte. Terwijl in de verte sirenes loeiden, een geluid dat meestal het einde van zijn betrokkenheid betekende, merkte Tom iets op dat in haar kleine vuist geklemd zat. Het was een zelfgemaakte armband, gestikt van stukjes stof, met daarop een enkel, grof geborduurd woord: Mea.
“Maya? Is that your name?” Tom asked, stroking her hair. “Maya?”
The girl’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something—recognition, perhaps—before they began to close.
“Stay with me,” Tom urged, his voice rising with a panic he hadn’t felt since he was a rookie. “The ambulance is almost here. Stay with me, please!”
As paramedics rushed toward them moments later, Tom couldn’t explain the overwhelming sense that this wasn’t just another call. This wasn’t just another child in trouble. In that moment, as he looked into those haunting eyes, he felt a profound and terrifying conviction: this moment would change everything.
The fluorescent lights of Pinewood Memorial Hospital cast harsh shadows across the waiting room as Tom sat hunched forward, his police cap clutched between weathered hands. Four hours had passed since they’d rushed the little girl through those emergency room doors, and still, no word.
“Officer Shepard?” A tired voice broke through his thoughts.
Tom looked up to see Dr. Elaine Winters, her silver-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, a clipboard in her hand.
“How is she?” Tom asked, rising to his feet, his joints cracking in protest.
Dr. Winters gestured to the chairs. “She’s stabilized, but her condition is serious. Severe malnutrition, dehydration, and a respiratory infection we’re treating aggressively.”
“Will she…?” Tom couldn’t finish the sentence.
“She’s responding to treatment,” Dr. Winters said, her professional expression softening with a hint of compassion. “She’s a fighter, that one. But I’m concerned about more than her physical condition.”
Tom nodded, understanding the unspoken message. “Has she said anything? Told you her name?”
“Nothing yet. We’ve registered her as Jane Doe for now.” The doctor hesitated. “Officer, there are signs that concern me. The marks on her wrists and ankles suggest long-term confinement. And her reaction to basic things—a television, even the hospital food tray—indicates she may have been isolated for an extended period.”
Tom’s jaw tightened. “I found something clutched in her hand. A bracelet with the name ‘Mea’ on it.”
“That might be her name, or someone important to her,” Dr. Winters noted. “We’ll try using it when she wakes up.”
“When can I see her?” Tom asked, an unfamiliar urgency in his voice.
“She’s sleeping now. Come back tomorrow morning.”
As Tom walked through the hospital parking lot, his phone rang. It was his captain.
“Shepard, what’s this I hear about you finding a kid?” Captain Reynolds’s voice was gruff. “Report came across my desk.”
“Little girl, severely neglected, found at an abandoned property on Maple Lane,” Tom replied, sliding into his patrol car.
“Social Services taking over?”
“They’ve been notified, but she’s in no condition for questioning.”
There was a pause on the line. “Listen, Tom, I know you’re heading out soon. Don’t get too invested in this one. Standard protocol. File your report, let the system handle it.”
Tom watched raindrops begin to splatter against his windshield. “She was holding a bracelet with the name ‘Mea’ on it. I’m going to check property records on that house tomorrow.”
A heavy sigh from Reynolds. “Just remember, you’re retiring in three months. Don’t make it complicated.”
But as Tom drove through the darkened streets, he knew it was already complicated. Something about those eyes. They reminded him of someone else, someone he had failed long ago, another child lost to a system that was supposed to protect her.
The next morning, Tom returned to the hospital with a small, plush teddy bear he’d picked up from the gift shop. When he entered the pediatric ward, a young nurse named Sarah met him with a warm smile.
“Officer Shepard, Dr. Winters said you might come by. Our Jane Doe is awake, but…” her smile faltered. “She’s not responding much to anyone.”
Sarah led him to a small room where the girl sat propped up in bed, her thin frame nearly lost among the blankets. Her eyes, those same deep brown eyes, darted to him instantly, wide and watchful.
“Hi there,” Tom said gently, approaching the bed slowly. “Remember me? I found you yesterday. I brought you something.” He placed the bear at the foot of the bed, careful not to move too quickly. The girl stared at him, unblinking.
“I was wondering if your name is ‘Mea,’” Tom tried. “Is that your name, sweetie?”
Something flickered in her eyes, not recognition of the name, but something else. Her gaze shifted to the bracelet now resting on the bedside table.
Tom followed her gaze. “Is ‘Mea’ someone you know? Or something important to you?”
