I climbed as far into the wreck as I could, cut the strap, and lifted her out.
And I said the first thing that came to mind:
“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
She wasn’t okay—not even close.
But she was alive.
And in that moment, that was enough.
I rode with her to the hospital.
She stared at me the entire time—those empty, shocked eyes children get when the world breaks too suddenly for them to understand.
She wore a silver baby bracelet with tiny bells. Every time the ambulance hit a pothole, it jingled softly.
At the hospital, she was admitted as an unidentified minor from the crash scene.
That detail would matter later.
Far more than it should have.
The two adults had been carrying her diaper bag, an insurance card, and family paperwork in the front of the vehicle.
So the police made an assumption.
