They were marks left by the wheelbarrow.
“She pushed them all the way,” his partner whispered.
Harris nodded.
“She’s seven.”
At the hospital, nobody knew any of this yet.
The seven-year-old sat beneath a heated blanket while a social worker examined her hands.
The blisters were severe.
Her feet were worse.
She had walked for hours.
But every few minutes, she looked toward the neonatal unit.
“Are they awake?”
The nurse checked.
“Not yet.”
The girl’s lower lip trembled.
“But they’re going to be okay?”
“We’re doing everything we can.”
The girl nodded.
Then she asked quietly:
“Did you find my mommy?”
The social worker froze.
“Why do you think we’re looking for her?”
“Because she told me to tell you where she was.”
The room went silent.
“She knew she might not wake up,” the girl whispered.
The social worker sat beside her.
“What else did she tell you?”
