I watched, helpless, as my daughter was taken.
Some guy with a hoodie pulled low over his face.
White male. Five feet ten inches. A hundred and ninety pounds.
The phone that’d been, I assumed, sitting to the side of the bed because nothing was jostled as the man in black pants, black Doc Marten work boots, and a black shirt, didn’t touch it when he got Memphis out.
My wife gasped from behind me, seeing Memphis go down before our very eyes.
“No!” Memphis yelled. “Stop! Let me go! Downy!”
The heartbreaking screams of my baby girl reminded me of the ones I’d heard years ago going into the hospital.