The automatic doors of the police station slid open with a soft, mechanical sigh, letting in a blast of winter air and a family who looked like they hadn’t slept well in days.

The father entered first, tall and stiff, his shoulders hunched with tension, while the mother followed closely behind, one arm protectively around a small girl whose face was stained and red from crying. The girl couldn’t have been more than two years old, and yet her expression carried a weight that didn’t belong to someone so young; her eyes were red and glistening, as if tears were her constant companion.

The police station was quiet in that typical early afternoon lull: only the hum of fluorescent lights, the distant tapping of keyboards, and the low murmur of officers exchanging routine information could be heard. A flag hung near the counter, and a faded poster about community safety curled slightly at the corners. The receptionist, a middle-aged man with tired eyes and evident patience, looked up as the family approached and immediately sensed the tension clinging to them like a second skin.

“Good afternoon,” she said gently, clasping her hands on the counter. “How can I help you today?”

The father hesitated, clearing his throat as if he had trouble forming the words.

“We were hoping to speak to a police officer,” he said, keeping his voice low, as if he feared that even the walls could hear him.

The receptionist raised his eyebrows slightly.

—Can I ask what it’s about?