Keep looking. Keep looking. Some of the other people who were standing by, hoping and praying and watching, start to leave. Time for supper. Time for me to get home, too. But I can’t give up. If I’m late, I’ll deal with Nana. It won’t be the first time and it won’t be the last time. I think she’ll understand.
Keep looking.
I stand at the river’s edge. What if I saw a little body? What if I looked down and…
I do see something.
A grown-up, leaning against a bridge that goes over the river. They’re very short and very thin. Their face is so covered with dirt and grime that I am not sure if they’re Black or white, young or old, or even a man or a woman.
Unhoused, obviously. Mentally ill, maybe, but I’m not sure. It’s getting harder and harder to tell anymore.
But I can tell that something just doesn’t feel right.
I stare, trying to figure it out. They’re wearing a filthy, torn pink polo shirt, the kind with the little green alligator on it, and they’re holding a huge, very dirty, stained cotton sack in their hands. The sack looks heavy.
I’m nervous, but something inside me makes me walk up to them.
“Uh, excuse me? Have you seen a little girl around here lately?” I ask.
“Why? Didja know her?” they say. They clutch the cotton sack a little tighter.
I tremble just a little. I’m suddenly cold. I think I’m going to cry. Or throw up.
Because I’m pretty sure I know what—who—is in that sack.
“There’s a church soup kitchen not too far from here,” I say. “If you let me look inside that bag, I can take you there. Help you get some food. I bet you’re hungry.”
The person grunts, like they’re considering it. They start to let go of the sack.
I make my move. I pull the bag out of their hands and tear it open.
Two big round eyes blink up at me.
The little girl. It’s her. Yo-Yo.
“She’s in here!” I yell. “Help!”
The girl doesn’t speak. She doesn’t cry. She’s so little, smaller than I thought a four-year-old could be, and she still has her tiny little shoes on. She has brown stuff—chocolate?—around her mouth.
Gabe and Cedric come running over to me, and begin yelling the magic words.
“We found her. We found her. We’ve got her!”
The person who had the bag looks at me. Then they look at her.
“So you did know her,” they say. “I didn’t. But she was near the river. She could have drowned.”
Who the hell knows the truth?
At least we found her.
HONESTLY, IDON’Tthink that Gabe, Cedric, and I are heroes. I think we are just three kids who pretended to be real detectives, and then we got lucky—so we are sure not expecting a parade or a testimonial dinner. But the way the cops and detectives and grown-ups from the area are slapping our backs and high-fiving us, you’d think we’d just come back to Earth from a walk on Mars. We were just over-the-moon happy that we found that little girl.
I’m totally bad at guessing people’s ages, but the pretty woman carrying and kissing Yo-Yo looks like she’s in her twenties. She’s wearing a cleaning person’s uniform. The sister we saw earlier is hanging close by her side. I can see from here both have been crying. It must be Yo-Yo’s mom and sister. People just assumed the mom was a druggie or a jerk or both. Wow, were they ever wrong. Now I’m watching her and thinking she’s just another mom who’s trying to balance impossible things like jobs and kids and money and school.
But there is one thing I’m just never going to get away from.
“Hey,” says one officer in uniform. “I hope you’re bringing that smart brain of yours to that big debate.”