It wasn’t from her.

It was from her mom.

The handwriting was rushed. Barely legible. But it was clear enough.

She said she couldn’t carry her daughter anymore. That she didn’t have food, couldn’t keep her safe, and didn’t know what else to do. Said the block party was the last place she knew where someone might notice her child without calling CPS immediately.

Said she hoped someone in uniform would do the right thing.

I looked around, trying to spot anyone nearby watching us. No one stood out.

The little girl just stood there, quietly licking her ice pop.

And then the officer next to me whispered, “Look at the bottom.”

What it said made my stomach drop: “Her name is Lila. She likes dinosaurs and pancakes.”

We froze. The weight of the situation hit us like a ton