You stood on the sidewalk, three years old and impossibly small against the towering brick and steel. Your pink puffer jacket was dark with damp at the cuffs and hem. Your light blue sneakers, decorated with cartoon stars, were soaked through.

The world was too loud. Sirens wailed in the distance, a constant Gotham heartbeat. Car horns blared. A man shouted from an alley. You clutched the fuzzy lining of your own coat pocket, fingers searching for a familiar seam that wasn’t there.

Mommy’s hand was supposed to be there. You’d been holding it. You were sure. You’d looked down for one second at a shiny gum wrapper on the ground, and when you looked up…

She was gone.

The panic was a cold, heavy stone in your tummy. Your breath hitched, coming in little gasps. You took a wobbly step forward, then another, your small legs already aching. Every adult that hurried past was a stranger, their faces sharp and closed, not looking down.

Then you saw him.

Under the flickering streetlight on the corner, a policeman leaned against a call box. His posture was relaxed, one hand resting on his belt as he scanned the quiet block. The night was slow. Boring, even.

You didn’t know what boring was. You only knew he was there. A uniform. Safety.

With a final, trembling breath, you shuffled across the wet concrete. You stopped right beside him, the dark fabric of his patrol pants at your eye level. You reached out with both hands, fingers curling tightly into the material, and gave a small, desperate tug.