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I lifted the lid anyway. The smell hit me—food gone bad, wet paper, something sour underneath. I thumbed on my phone flashlight and moved the beam slowly over split bags and soggy boxes.
At first, it was just trash. Then the light caught something in the corner.
I jerked back so hard my heel slipped on ice. “Oh, God.”
She was curled up under a collapse of newspapers, so small she looked like part of the garbage. Maybe six or seven, bones sharp under her clothes. Her hair was tangled and dark with dirt, the oversized hoodie swallowing her frame.
“Hey,” I said softly, lowering my voice like I was approaching a stray cat. “It’s okay. I’m not here to hurt you.”
She flinched, throwing an arm over her face. Her whole body trembled so badly the trash around her quivered.
“It’s freezing,” I continued, taking a careful step closer. “You can’t stay in there. You’ll get sick.”
She tried to speak and only a dry clicking sound came out. Dehydration. Fear. Probably both.
The alley behind my building had no cameras, no witnesses. Just me, this child, and a silence that felt wrong. Not just sad-wrong. Dangerous-wrong.
“I’ve got heat upstairs,” I said. “Blankets. Food.”
I didn’t think it through. I just climbed up, reached in, and slid my arms under her.
“I’m going to lift you out,” I warned. “Hold on.”
She went stiff as a plank when I touched her. She weighed almost nothing. In the yellow light of the alley, her bruises showed—faded ones on her arms, fresh ones along her jawline. A pattern that made my stomach twist.
“Who did this to you?” I whispered.
She didn’t answer. Just buried her face in my coat like I was the last solid thing on earth.
I turned toward the back door of my building, every instinct in me waking up. Something about this wasn’t random. And for the first time in months, the part of my brain that chased stories was fully awake.
The Girl on My Couch
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