Then it started again.
I followed the sound to the last stall.
There was a newborn girl lying on the changing table.
She was wrapped in a thin yellow blanket, her face red from crying. A note had been pinned to the edge of the blanket.
My stomach dropped.
There was a newborn girl lying on the changing table.
Please take care of her. Her name is Hope.
“Oh… you poor thing,” I whispered.
I remember pulling her against my chest.
I remember yelling for help.
Most of all, I remember her tiny face turning toward my uniform as if she already knew me. I remember her tiny fingers clutching my shirt.
Please take care of her. Her name is Hope.
What came after was security, police, nurses, social workers, and questions I couldn’t answer.
I hadn’t seen anyone leave or spoken to anyone. I didn’t recognize the handwriting.
Later, an investigator mentioned security was trying to identify two women seen near the restroom. Neither was ever found.
