I can’t remember a period when he wasn’t with Search & Rescue. Years of training, years of risking his life, and years of pushing his body to the limit in ways that most people wouldn’t even dream about. He walked into a mess like it was nothing. While the ground was falling apart under his boots, he lifted full-grown men out of mudslides.
I’ve seen him climb up on roofs that were about to come down and pull people out who were still alive with nothing but his strength and willpower. He even jumped into the pitch-black floodwaters on his own after the sonar broke down and everyone else was too terrified to go. He couldn’t face the thought that someone might still be down there waiting.
He wasn’t scared, he didn’t stop, and he wasn’t scared of being rattled. That’s why the photo worried me so terribly; I’d never seen him look like that before. I could tell something was wrong with his eyes even though the satellite phone picture was fuzzy.
He sent the picture with a short comment that said, “We got the baby out of Building 6.” I didn’t think about it at first because he’s sent me these updates dozens of times over the years. But then the words started to sink in, and I felt bad, like a slow poison. Because I knew Building 6 well, this happened. Everyone in the family did. It wasn’t a house.
There didn’t have to be a baby there. Building 6 used to be a little, cozy bakery that made the street smell like bread in the mornings. But years ago, it was sold, stripped down, and repurposed into an office that anyone could rent for a short period. The cubicles, workstations, and flickering fluorescent lights make the place feel cold and unwelcoming. No beds. No families.
There is no reason for a baby to be there. And what about the door in the front? Steel that has been reinforced and sealed, with rust creeping around the hinges. The papers state it hadn’t been opened in years. That was what made it so hard to snap the image.
I couldn’t get rid of it, so I zoomed in on the picture and stared at it until my eyes hurt. The fleece blanket that the child was wrapped in was soft and delicate and had stars and clouds on it. My stomach dropped. It wasn’t just any blanket; it was the blanket. The one our aunt spent hours making by hand, delicately weaving each cloud and stitching each star.
She made it six months ago as a gift for her daughter’s new baby. But the baby never came back home. He was stillborn. When they buried him, my aunt made sure that blanket was with him in the tiny white casket. She stated that was the only way she could keep him warm. We all stood there in silence that day, watching her hands linger on the fabric before the lid was shut. That was for sure. The blanket that was on the baby should have been on the ground.
I didn’t want to talk. The idea itself seemed cruel and wrong, like my mind was playing tricks on me while I was depressed and in distress. But it got difficult to breathe the more I gazed. My chest felt tight. A part of me wanted to believe it was just a coincidence, like when a lot of families buy the same fabric. But I knew deep down that it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.
The stitches were different from others. She owned them. There are tiny differences between each cloud and each star. This item was manufactured by hand, so it wasn’t made for a lot of people. Not the same. There is no way to confuse it with anything else.
I couldn’t talk to him about it until my phone rang. My cousin was there. I had only heard her voice shake like that once before, on the night of the burial. She didn’t ask me how I was doing or if I had heard the news. She only said one thing: “You need to come over.” “Now,” she said. “It’s about the baby.”
