The soft crackle of the radio was the only sound in Officer José López’s patrol car as Vanessa Gómez’s urgent voice came through. Her words were sharp with worry — a young girl, alone, possibly in danger. López turned down Maple Street, the familiar neighborhood bathed in the golden hue of late afternoon. It was peaceful on the surface, yet he knew how deceptive calm could be. Some of the darkest moments hid behind quiet doors.
He parked and approached the small, worn-down house. A faded tricycle rested near the steps, and the curtains were drawn tight. His knock echoed through the air, each second of silence stretching unbearably until the door creaked open. A girl stood there — frail, trembling, eyes wide with a mix of fear and fragile hope.
“Hello, Liliana,” López said softly, lowering himself to her level. “I’m here to help you.”
The girl’s lip quivered as she whispered, “My tummy really hurts.”
He gave her a reassuring smile. “You did the right thing calling for help. Can I come in?”
Liliana stepped aside, revealing a dim living room where a cartoon flickered faintly on an old television. The house was neat but hollow, as though life inside it had slowly faded away. López’s instincts kicked in — something was wrong beyond what he could see.
When he asked about her mother, Liliana led him wordlessly to a small bedroom. On the bed lay a woman — pale, motionless, her breathing ragged. López’s heart sank. He immediately radioed for medical support, his calm tone belying the urgency of the situation.
As they waited, he kept talking to Liliana, distracting her with gentle questions. “What’s your favorite cartoon?” he asked, trying to keep her from noticing the fear in his eyes.
“La familia P. Luche,” she murmured weakly, trying to smile. Her small hand clutched his. “Will my mom wake up soon?”
López squeezed her fingers lightly. “The doctors are coming to help her,” he promised, though he could only hope that help would arrive in time.
Moments later, sirens broke the stillness.