Or your dad? Anyone?“
She whimpered again, a small sound that barely filled the space between us.
There was a folded slip of paper pinned to her blanket. My mind raced a thousand miles in the moments I reached out to read it.
“I can’t do this.
Please, take care of her. Give her a home and give her joy.”
“Oh, my God,” I whispered. “You’ve been left here, baby girl.”
She stirred at the sound of my voice, her tiny hands curling into fists.
I reached for my phone with one hand and cradled her against my chest with the other, the smell of rain and baby powder filling my lungs.
I pressed my floor and waited for the call to connect.
“911, what’s your emergency?” the operator answered.
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