At first, she didn’t see him.
When she finally looked up and spotted the uniform, her entire body went rigid.
Fear flashed across her face—pure, immediate, learned fear.
Her eyes darted to his badge, then his radio, then the holster at his hip. Her fingers clenched around the bag so tightly her knuckles turned white. Michael recognized that look. It wasn’t fear of a stranger.
It was fear of authority.
He stopped walking.
He lowered himself slightly, bending his knees so he didn’t tower over her, keeping his hands visible and still. He didn’t speak right away. Another gust of wind rattled the trees, and she hunched over, tightening the sling as the baby stirred and made a soft sound before settling again.
Michael thought of his own daughter, Sofia, six years old, safe at home, probably arguing with cartoons or refusing to eat vegetables. The contrast hit him so hard he had to swallow.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, careful.
“Hey there,” he said. “I’m not here to get you in trouble.”
She didn’t respond.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
The girl hesitated, then whispered something so soft he almost missed it.
“Annie.”
“How old are you, Annie?”