“I see her,” I say.

“Where? Where is she? Where is she!”

“We’ve got her.” Tomasetti kneels, sets his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “What’s your name?”

“P-Paula,” she says. “Paula Kester.”

I don’t think about what I’m doing as I stumble past a splintered table. I fall to my knees, set my hands on the playpen rails, and lift it. I choke out a sound when I see the tiny baby. Its face is blue and scrunched up. Mouth open and quivering. I see pink gums. Eyes that aren’t quite right. Blood on its chin. Glass shimmers on a little onesie that’s been nearly torn from its tiny body.

Holding the playpen up with one arm, I reach for the infant. Her skin is wet and cool to the touch. I know better than to move an injured patient. If they have a spinal injury, any kind of movement could do more harm than good. But with the smell of gas present, I don’t have a choice.

“Come here, little one.” Grasping the baby’s ankle, I pull her toward me as gently as I can manage. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re okay. You’re safe now.”

“Lucy?” comes the mother’s voice. “Why isn’t she crying? Why isn’t she crying?”

When the baby is clear, I lower the playpen and carefully lift her into my arms. “I’ve got her.”

I glance over to see the woman propped on an elbow. Her face is bleeding and red, her expression twisted in pain, tears streaming from her eyes. “My baby! Oh, my baby! Is she hurt? What’s wrong with her?”

“We need to get you out of here. Both of you. Right now.” Tomasetti’s voice cuts through her panic. Deep. Authoritative. No room for argument.

I glance over to see him shoving debris aside, his eyes on the woman. “There’s a gas leak,” he tells her, “so I’m going to lift you and carry you out through that window over there. That all right with you?”

“Oh, God. Gas. Please! Just take care of my baby.”

I hold the child against my chest. I make eye contact with Tomasetti as I brush past him and start toward the window. The smell of gas is stronger now. Building inside the small space. I quicken my pace.

Behind me, I hear the woman moaning. Tomasetti reassuring her as he moves her. I stumble past toppled furniture, the buckled floor, the overturned refrigerator. The baby is limp and soft and frighteningly quiet in my arms as I drop to my knees and scrabble through the window. Holding her against me with one arm, doing my best to protect her from the glass and splintered frame, I crawl through. All I can think about is getting the baby out.

Then I’m free of the trailer. On my knees, holding the child against me. I turn, relieved to see Tomasetti a few feet behind me. He’s carrying the woman. I see exertion in his face. Stress in the way his mouth is pulled tight. A moan of pain tears from her throat with every step he takes.