The Girl in My Dumpster Was the City’s Missing Child

My name is Noah Carter. Thirty-four, once respected at the Lakeshore Chronicle, now unemployed and living off savings and regret.

My apartment was a disaster—stacks of old case files, laundry in half-hearted piles—but it was warm. I locked the door behind us, sliding every bolt I had.

I set her gently on the sunken couch. She pulled her knees to her chest, watching me like a cornered animal.

“I’m Noah,” I said, moving to the small kitchen. “I’m going to get you some water, okay?”

She didn’t respond, but she didn’t look away either.

I filled a glass from the tap and brought it over. She took it so fast I almost dropped it. The water was gone in three gulps.

“I’ll get you more.”

Two, three glasses later, the panic in her breathing settled a little.

“Hungry?” I asked.

She nodded once, a jerky movement.

I heated the only thing I had that wasn’t instant noodles—canned beans. While the microwave hummed, I grabbed a clean washcloth, soaked it in warm water, and sat on the coffee table in front of her.

“You’ve got something on your face,” I said. “Can I…?”

She tensed but didn’t pull away when I gently wiped the grime from her cheek. As I cleaned her hands, something caught my eye.

Her left wrist was wrapped in black electrical tape.

“What’s this?” I asked quietly.

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