Only a torn scrap remained under the metal, a ragged triangle of notebook paper where something larger had been ripped away.
My mouth went dry.
I looked from the boy to the girl, then back to the note in my hand.
The paper shook once between my fingers.
I do not like admitting that.
But it did.
The dispatcher stayed on the line while I moved the babies into the cruiser shade.
I cracked the doors to keep air moving without blasting them too hard.
I used bottled water on cloth, not poured directly, because training finally had a clean path through my fear.
I checked their breathing.
I checked their color.
I kept saying small things I do not remember choosing.
“Stay with me.”
“That’s it.”
“Come on, little one.”
The siren came faintly at first.
So faint I thought I had imagined it.
Then it rose behind me, thin and urgent across the desert.
