I heard later that he’d made the call log public in the department meeting. All 40 calls.
“This is what it looks like,” he told the room, “when someone’s paying attention.”
Two weeks later, there was a knock at the dispatch center door.
Keira stood there in her hospital scrubs. And holding her hand, with a stuffed dog under his arm, was Milo.
He looked up at me.
“Are you Miss Bev?”
“I am.”
He held out a book. It was a picture book he’d made himself, stapled together. On the cover was a dog with a glowing nose.
The title, in crayon, said “PANCAKE SAVES MILO.” Inside the cover, he had written: “For Miss Bev. You read me alive.”
The city gave me an award in December.
Keira got a day shift at the hospital the same month. A nurse she works with offered to babysit for free.
