The female officer’s jaw tightened.
She looked toward 114.
Then at the brass key.
“Where exactly did this come from?”
“Ice chute.”
“Did you touch anything else?”
“Just the machine and key.”
“Room?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She took the key using gloves.
Another patrol vehicle arrived.
Then an ambulance.
The child became overwhelmed.
She grabbed my vest.
I looked toward the female officer.
“Can she stay with me?”
“For now.”
The officer knelt again.
“Is that okay with you?”
The girl nodded.
That small question mattered.
She had been given a choice.
Two officers approached Room 114.
One knocked.
“Police.”
No response.
Another knock.
“Police. Is anybody inside?”
Nothing.
The girl covered her ears.
I crouched beside her.
“You don’t have to watch.”
She watched anyway.
The officer tried the recovered key.
It entered.
Would not turn.
He frowned.
Someone had engaged the interior deadbolt.
That changed things.
They called again.
No answer.
One officer looked through a narrow gap in the curtain.
His posture changed.
He immediately stepped away and spoke into his radio.
Then the motel room stopped being a mystery and became an emergency scene.
More officers.
Fire department.
Paramedics moving quickly.
The girl stood absolutely still.
I put one hand near her shoulder without touching.
She leaned into it herself.
The door was forced.
There was a noise from inside.
Voices.
Then movement.
A paramedic disappeared through the doorway.
Another followed carrying equipment.
The girl whispered, “She’s there.”
I did not know if that was true.
So I said, “They’re checking.”
Minutes behave strangely when you are waiting for news.
Five minutes can feel like forty.
The girl stared at the doorway.
Every time someone emerged, her whole body reacted.
Finally a paramedic stepped outside.
Behind him came a stretcher.
A small figure lay beneath a blanket.
The girl screamed.
“Sissy!”
She tried to run.
The female officer caught herself before grabbing her and instead stepped alongside us.
“Let them work.”
The girl broke.
I had heard men cry in hospitals.
I had heard mothers cry beside wrecks.
I had heard wounded soldiers call for people who were thousands of miles away.
Children sound different.
There is no dignity in it.
No attempt to control the body.
She folded against me.
I sat down right there on the motel walkway and let her.
The girl on the stretcher looked older.
Maybe eleven.
Maybe twelve.
Her face was pale.