Dispatcher Hannah Miller stiffened. Assuming the child meant a dangerous reptile, she immediately radioed nearby units, fearing an animal attack inside the home.
Within minutes, patrol car twelve pulled up outside a weathered house on the edge of town. Officers Jason Reed and Lila Monroe stepped onto the porch, flashlights cutting through the weak yellow glow overhead. The front door was slightly open.
“Police department!” Jason called out. “Is anyone inside?”
No answer—just the faint sound of crying.
The living room was cluttered with empty bottles and signs of long neglect. As the officers moved down the narrow hallway, the sobbing grew louder. It led them to a half-closed bedroom door.
Inside, a small girl sat on the floor beside a crumpled blanket. Her knees were scraped, her face tear-streaked.
“Hey there,” Lila said gently, kneeling down. “Where’s the snake?”
The girl shook her head. “It hurts,” she whispered. “Daddy said not to tell.”
Jason scanned the room. No reptile. No cage.
On a nearby couch lay a half-conscious man who smelled strongly of alcohol. His name, they would soon learn, was Brian Keller. He blinked at the officers, irritated.
“What’s going on?” he muttered.