“Yes.”

“I’ve got a first-aid kit and blanket in the back of my car.”

“I’m on it.” I rushed over to the car, my boot heels clacking against the street, then popped the trunk, taking out the kit as well as a flashlight and a blanket. He had another set of gloves in the kit, so I put them on, then brought the supplies to him and shone the light into the car.

“You brought the flashlight. Someone was thinking. Shine it here.”

“What about the pedestri … ?”

“Gone. Ah, you’re gloved. Press down here, okay? No, not there … here.”

The wail of sirens in the background. At this hour, the noise could be heard blocks away. As I applied pressure to a leaking vessel with my left hand, I called 911 again with my right. Then I tucked the phone between my shoulder and cheek, so I could free up the other hand to direct light to where Koby was working. He was trying to liberate the infant—thankfully, he had found a pulse—but a web of razor-sharp metal was in his way.

“This is Officer Cynthia Decker from LAPD. I just reported a fatal hit-and-run traffic accident. I need to hook up with radio dispatch so I can give out pertinent information to all cruisers near the scene.”

My neck was constricted, screwed up into a god-awful position to secure the phone, and the muscles began to throb. Adrenaline was shooting through my system, choking my breathing with pounding heartbeats. Still, when the police RTO came on the line, I had found my voice.

“Reporting a hit-and-run with fatalities. The vehicle was a late-model Jeep Cherokee, dark in color, last four digits of the license plate—Henry-five-two-three, again, Henry-five-two-three—last seen heading northbound on Terrazzo Avenue. All officers in the area respond immediately. Requesting additional units to the scene of the accident—Terrazzo and Sunset.”

I waited until the operator repeated the information. When she did, I hung up, put the phone down, and rolled my neck. Koby was wrist deep in blood, dressing horrid gashes with gauze from the kit. It was like plugging up the proverbial dike with a finger.

The sirens grew louder. I could see flashing lights in the reflection of the shattered window glass. The EMTs arrived less than three minutes after my first call, though it had seemed much longer. When they pushed me out of the way, I wanted to say thank you. Koby spoke rapidly while continuing his work, informing them about the infant, then requesting to speak to the doctor on the ambulance phone. When my date started conversing in medical lingo, I walked away, trying to figure out how to be useful.

With great trepidation, I walked over to the thrown body and held my mouth. I regarded her—discarded, her limbs broken and distorted. Her skull had been cracked open and brain was oozing out. The urge to puke was almost as strong as the urge to pass out. I jerked my eyes away from the corpse just as an unmarked car pulled up. Two people got out, flashing their badges. They needn’t have bothered, because I knew both of them by more than just name.