“Okay. Okay. I’ll take care of it right now.”

I disconnect and look at Tomasetti. “I need to get in there.”

He doesn’t look happy about it, but he knows better than to argue. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he drives ten yards into the park before our route is blocked by the exterior wall of a mobile home that has been shorn off. I see tufts of insulation and jagged two-by-fours and wooden paneling with a framed picture still attached.

I throw open the door and get out. For an instant, I stand there, frozen and mute because the devastation is so overwhelming I don’t know where to begin. Vaguely I’m aware of Tomasetti’s door slamming. Of him coming around to stand next to me.

“Watch for live wires,” he says. “If you smell gas, if you hear it, back off. Don’t go in.”

Nodding, I start toward the nearest mobile home. It’s a blue-and-white single-wide that’s been pushed off its pad and onto a pickup truck parked in the driveway. “Painters Mill PD!” I shout. “Is there anyone there? Do you need help?”

The words feel absurd coming out. Of course, the people who live here need help. The question is: Are they able to ask for it? Are they able to move? Are they still alive? I move closer to the wreckage. I hear hissing, but there’s no odor of gas. That’s when I realize there’s a slow leak in one of the truck tires. In the distance, emergency vehicle sirens begin to blare.

A sound reaches me over the cacophony. A tiny cry, like the mewling of a kitten. I glance over at Tomasetti, who’s standing a dozen feet away from me. I can tell by his expression he heard it, too.

“What was that?” But I’m already jogging toward a second overturned mobile home. It’s a green-and-white Liberty, lying on its side, a heap of twisted metal, busted two-by-fours, and clumps of insulation. The big bay window at the narrow end is shattered, yellow curtains spilling out and soaked with mud. “Police department!” I call out. “Is anyone in there?”

Ever watchful for live wires and the smell of gas, I reach the window. There’s glass everywhere. Indistinguishable pieces of metal. Splinters of wood. I wish for gloves as I kneel and peer in the window. I see a vintage refrigerator lying face down against caved-in cabinets. Water trickling from a broken pipe below the sink to my right. Carpet buckled over a floor that’s been split. “Police! Is anyone in there? Are you injured?”

The cry comes again, so clear this time the hairs at my nape stand on end. A baby. Not just a baby, but a newborn, gasping as if trying to cry. “Tomasetti!”

I hear him, already on the phone, calling the fire department for assistance. Mud and glass shards forgotten, I drop to my hands and knees. I yank the curtains from the window, toss them aside. Then I’m slithering through the opening. “Police! Do you need assistance?”