Six years old. My grandson, Leo, was six. He was currently in first grade, probably worrying about whether he’d get the red crayon or the blue one. Mia was somewhere else, trapped in a nightmare.
“Mommy went to work,” she whimpered. The sound of her isolation was devastating. “She works at the diner. She told me… she told me not to open the door for anybody. Not ever.”
A latchkey kid. It wasn’t uncommon in Silverwood. The factories had closed ten years ago, and the town had been bleeding out ever since. Parents worked two, three jobs just to keep the lights on. Leaving a six-year-old alone wasn’t negligence born of malice; it was negligence born of survival.
“Your mommy gave you good rules,” I reassured her, though my heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “But I’m not at the door, Mia. I’m on the phone. And I need to send some friends to help you. You said your legs hurt?”
“Yes,” she gasped. It was a sharp, involuntary sound of agony. “It burns. It feels like… like fire.”
“Okay, honey. I’m going to find you. I promise.”
The computer pinged. The address populated on my screen. 404 Elm Street.
I knew Elm Street. It was on the south side, down by the old textile mill. It was a neighborhood of crumbling bungalows and overgrown yards, a place where the streetlights had been broken for months.
I signaled my supervisor, David, waving my hand frantically over the partition. I mouthed the words: Child alone. Medical distress. Possible abuse.
“Mia,” I asked, dread coiling in my gut like a snake. “You said you can’t close your legs. Is someone there with you? Did someone hurt you?”
“No,” she whispered, confused. “Just the ants. They are… they are eating me.”
They are eating me.
The phrase didn’t make sense. It was too grotesque, too surreal. But the pain in her voice was real.
I dispatched the nearest units immediately. My fingers flew across the keyboard, entering the codes. Priority One. Child Alone. Unknown Medical Emergency. Continue reading…
