Noor let out a loud cheer, and this time I flicked on the lights for just a second, illuminating the fading evening sky. The reflection sparkled in her eyes. By the time I parked again, though, she seemed worn out from the excitement, her small hands gripping the belt like she didn’t want to leave. Her mother helped her out of the seat and into the wheelchair, while Cristian stepped out from the back.
“Thank you, Officer,” Noor’s mom whispered.
I lingered by my cruiser, feeling a rush of warmth I hadn’t felt in a long time. Tired as I was, I knew something important had just happened—a small step toward healing a family. Maybe it wouldn’t solve everything, but it was a start.
I didn’t hear from Noor’s family for almost two weeks. My shifts piled up, and I got stuck doing late-night patrols on the far side of town. But every so often, I’d think about her, wondering if she was doing okay.
Then one afternoon, Alina, the nurse, called me. “Hey, Officer Medina. Noor’s going home tomorrow,” she said, bright excitement in her voice. “Her mom asked if you could come by, if you’re free.”
When I arrived at the hospital the next morning, balloons were tied to the bed, and Noor was perched on the edge, minus the IV line, looking a little stronger than before. Her mother was signing discharge papers. Cristian stood to one side, looking both awkward and relieved. I took in the hopeful scene—the intangible air of a fresh start.
Noor hopped off the bed and ran—well, more like carefully trotted—over to me. “Officer Medina, guess what!” she exclaimed. “My dad’s staying with me. He’s helping Mama with our new apartment. I have my own room and everything.”
I smiled and crouched down to her level. “That’s awesome news. Does that mean you’ll have room for all the plushies people keep giving you?”
She grinned and hugged the stuffed bear Cristian had brought her that day in the parking lot. “Yes! And guess what else?”
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