The girl’s—Mia’s—voice shrank to a whisper as she clutched the dog. “Please don’t send me back. Please don’t let him find me.” Her plea was raw survival, spoken by a child who had already lost too much. Manny felt something inside him lock firmly into place, a decision made not as a paramedic but as a human being. He would not fail this child.
True to that internal vow, Manny reported Derrick Vale to Child Protective Services immediately. Though sympathetic, the caseworker explained that Mia’s statements, fragmented, traumatized, and uncorroborated, could only open an investigation, not trigger immediate action. Without physical evidence or a documented pattern of complaints, their hands were tied far more than Manny liked. The system, he was told, required more than a credible story; it demanded proof that could stand up in a court of law.
In a courtroom, the law demanded proof, but in the precinct, Manny faced its frustrating reality. Determined, he formally requested a warrant to arrest Derrick Vale. The detective on duty reviewed Mia’s statements but ultimately shook his head. A warrant required more than fear and memory; it needed concrete proof—a witness, a weapon, a medical report, something tangible. Manny felt frustration twisting inside him, knowing every hour lost widened the danger. He argued, citing the boy’s disappearance and the dog’s intervention as corroboration, but the law’s gears turned slowly, insulated against hearsay.
He left the station with a hollow feeling, the bureaucratic stalemate a stark contrast to the vivid urgency of Mia’s story. He couldn’t wait for the system to catch up. Returning to the hospital, he found Mia asleep, one small hand buried in the dog’s fur. The sight solidified his resolve. He began his own quiet investigation, making calls to contacts in social services and neighboring precincts, digging for any prior mention of Derrick Vale. He needed a thread to pull, anything that could add weight to Mia’s account and force official action before Vale could cover his tracks.
The dog lifted its head, watching him with intelligent, weary eyes. In that moment, Manny understood the animal was more than a pet; it was a co-conspirator, a silent guardian who had completed its mission by delivering Mia to him. The responsibility now was his alone. He would have to be the wall between this child and the man who haunted her, using every resource he had, both within the law and beyond its sluggish pace.
The captain’s words were a legal truth, but they settled in Manny’s gut like a physical weight. He left the office hollow-chested, that old, familiar helplessness from the long-ago missing-girl case rising like bile. The system demanded patience, but every instinct screamed that patience was a death sentence. That night, he found a small matchbox resting squarely on his doorstep, its edges singed black, the acrid smell of burnt sulfur lingering in the air. Someone had been here, wanting him to know they could reach him anytime.