I woke up to the smell of burnt toast and the faint sound of someone rummaging in my kitchen. I sat up, I remembered the call from last night—a drunk and disorderly teen stumbling around the park after curfew, no ID, just tears and slurred excuses. I brought her home instead of booking her—something about the look in her eyes, that kind of worn-down fear I’d seen too many times. I gave her a shirt of mine and the couch for the night because I knew her parents would be furious if a cop brought her back home drunk. My badge was on the dresser, the morning sun glinting off it, reminding me that good intentions still had rules. I got up, walked into the kitchen, and there she was—wearing one of my old academy shirts, trying to figure out the toaster like it was a bomb. She froze when she saw me. I sighed, leaned on the doorframe, and said, “Kid, you owe me an explanation—and a new toaster.”