Officer Emmanuel “Manny” Hart anticipated no movement from the garbage heap, only the familiar whisper of wind through the alley he paced on every sleepless night. But on this night, something stirred beneath the broken cardboard—a quick, deliberate shift. His pulse quickened as he moved closer, the beam of his flashlight wavering slightly in his hand.
A low, rumbling growl emerged from the shadows, rooting him to the spot. Two yellow eyes gleamed between plastic bags, belonging to an animal crouched low, standing guard over something concealed. Every instinct warned Manny of danger, yet the visible tremor in the creature’s frame gave him pause.
Slowly, he lowered the light, inch by cautious inch, until it illuminated a small, pale hand protruding from beneath the refuse. The air caught in Manny’s chest. The dog was positioned over a small child—curled tightly, motionless, and icy to the touch. His most dreadful suspicion struck him with immediate, chilling force: someone had abandoned a child here.
Walking this particular lane had become Manny’s ritual when insomnia gripped him hardest, a habit forged by a long-ago case he could never quite shed. The cold, sharp air often provided a solace he could never find in the stifling warmth of his bed.
Now, kneeling carefully, Manny held his palms open and upward, murmuring soft, steady words into the bitter air. The dog growled once more, then released a trembling whine, caught between the urge to defend and a desperate plea for aid. Raindrops clung to its matted coat like tiny beads of glass.
The little girl did not respond to Manny’s voice; she didn’t even flinch. Only the faintest twitch of her fingers indicated life. Her lips were a terrifying shade of blue. She wasn’t merely asleep; she was fading away.