March 2, 1979, 1:27 PM
Mrs. Lydia Rhodes pulled her reliable minivan up to the curb outside a small house in a moldering neighborhood far south of downtown, and turned off the engine. A calmness settled over her, and she knew that what she was about to do would mean taking on the responsibility of someone else’s life. She glanced up and down the rows of sagging houses, looking for neighbors or bystanders. Clouds stretched low over the neighborhood, casting the day in shades of somber grey. The street was eerily quiet on the weekday afternoon. She left the car unlocked and crossed the distance to the front door in a few quick steps. She kicked a few stinking garbage bags out of the way to reach the front door and knocked loudly.
There was no answer. Glancing around, again, she retreated off the porch and started around the side of the house. There was a little path through the narrow space between the houses; the dormant plants lining the path were strewn with garbage. It didn’t take long to reach the back door, which was all but four feet away from a chain-link fence penning the neighbor’s equally dismal back yard.
Lydia tried the doorknob, but it was locked. She moved a few broken plastic lawn chairs to reach the nearby window. There was a faint sound, muffled whimpering. It sounded pathetically quiet and pitiful. Panic spread through her body and she wrenched the aluminum window up. It screeched open far enough so that the whimpering sound became instantly clearer. This had to be the baby’s room. Using both hands, she pushed up, sliding the window all the way open. 
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