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It was a sweltering summer day at the neighborhood block party—bounce houses, food trucks, and music filled the street. I was helping two officers at a community booth when a little girl, no older than four, approached us. She handed me a folded note with one hand, holding a melting blue freezer pop in the other. Silent. Calm. At first, we thought it was a child’s drawing. But when I unfolded it, everything shifted.
Her mother had written it. A desperate, barely legible message explaining she couldn’t feed or protect her daughter anymore. She hoped someone in uniform would do the right thing. At the bottom of the note: “Her name is Lila. She likes pancakes and dinosaurs.”