She was maybe seven, small enough that the handle of the door sat near her shoulder, and she looked like she had walked a long way on feet that were never meant to carry someone through cold pavement and gravel, because her soles were dirty, her toes were nicked in a dozen tiny places, and her clothes hung on her like they belonged to a different kid with a different life.
But it was her face that stopped him, her cheeks wet with tears that made clean streaks through the grime, her eyes wide in a way that did not match her age, and her arms wrapped around a brown paper bag held tight against her chest as though she believed her grip alone could keep something from slipping away.
Nolan stood slowly, careful not to move too fast, because frightened children read speed as danger the way adults read sirens.
“Hey there, sweetheart,” he said, letting his voice stay low and steady even as his stomach tightened. “You’re safe here. Are you hurt? Can you tell me what’s going on?”
