His eyes were on Lily.
Then he dropped into a crouch beside the bike, bringing his face down to hers. Asked her what her name was. She barely got it out above a whisper.
He asked if she was frightened. She shook her head. Then she said, “Grandpa’s bike is the only time I can feel where I’m going.”
The officer went quiet for a stretch. Finally he stood back up, reached for his notebook, and I braced myself. This was the moment. Citation. Report filed. Maybe a call over to CPS.
He scribbled something down, ripped the sheet loose, and passed it to me. Wasn’t a ticket.
It was a phone number, and beneath it, printed in tight block letters, was the name of Officer David Miller, followed by the words Personal Cell.
He looked up, meeting my eyes, and the rigid, professional mask he’d been wearing had completely
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