“It’s freezing out here,” Evan continued, taking a careful step closer. “You can’t stay in the trash. You’ll get sick. Come on.”
The girl tried to speak but could only manage a hoarse clicking sound. Fear, dehydration, or both. Evan’s instincts screamed at him: he had to get her out of here.
“I have blankets. Food. Warmth,” he said. “Come with me. Now.”
The girl attempted to stand, knees buckling beneath her. Evan didn’t hesitate. He reached into the dumpster and lifted the girl carefully, holding her close as they exited the alley.
The child was light as a feather, her tiny frame frail. Bruises streaked across her arms, and a fresh mark had formed along her jawline. Evan’s stomach churned. Whoever had done this was meticulous, cruel, deliberate.
“Do you have a name?” he asked quietly.
The girl flinched again, burying her face against Evan’s coat. No answer.
They entered Evan’s small apartment, the warmth washing over them. The room was cluttered, piles of old newspapers, case files, laundry, but it was safe. Evan placed the girl gently on the sofa.
“I’m Evan,” he said, kneeling beside her. “I’ll get you water.”