They wheel her in on the first spare bed.
They do that. They wheel them down the corridors in front of everybody. I watch them from my station.
The girl is the third this weekend. She stumbled in from the cold, all the way from the alley on the other side of town. She has been running. I walk to her room to fill out the necessary forms. Name. Age. Current address. Anyone we can call?
Stale blood has infected her shorts and she is shivering. They do that. They always shiver. They’re eyes, brown, blue, the occasional green, are always wide and glazed and they always smell of sweat and sex.
I leave her there. Someone will be with you in a minute. To give you clean clothes. The police have already been called.
Back at my station I make the call to the parents. I tell them the news. I’m very sorry. She’s safe now. Yes, the police have been called. At first they say nothing as is the custom and then, Oh my God, oh no, why? Our little girl? Why?
They do that. They cry, they scream and they always ask me why. They always do that.
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