The precinct door groaned open, sending a swirl of snow across the grimy floor. I glanced up, expecting another drunk looking for warmth. There was no one.
“Close the door!” shouted someone from the back.
I pushed myself up from my desk, knees cracking. Too old for this job, I thought.
As I rounded the front desk, I froze. There was a kid. No more than seven. Soaked, shivering violently, teeth rattling like dice. His hoodie hung off him like a tent, and his canvas shoes were held together with duct tape—perfectly useless in a blizzard.
The room fell silent.
I knelt down. “Hey, son… you lost? Where’s your mom?”
He just stared. Eyes wide, too old for his age.
He took a trembling step forward, holding out his wrists. “I… I need you to arrest me,” he whispered.
I blinked. Almost laughed. “Arrest you? For what? Stealing cookies?”
Dead serious, tears freezing on his cheeks, he said, “I’m a bad person. I ran away. You have to put me in jail. Please.”
My stomach dropped. This wasn’t a joke.
“Son, what’s your name?” I asked gently.
Continue reading on next page…