They were dressed in filthy oversized T-shirts that swallowed their arms and bunched around their little legs.
Their faces were bright red.
Their hair was damp.
Sweat shone along their temples and necks.
Their mouths hung slightly open, like even breathing had become too much work.
They were not crying.
That scared me more than screaming would have.
“Oh my God,” I choked.
My knife slipped out of my hand and landed in the dirt.
Training came up through the shock, but it came through slowly, like it had to push past something in my chest.
I reached in for the little girl first.
I was afraid my hands were too rough.
I was afraid I would hurt her.
I was afraid I was already too late.
She weighed almost nothing.
Her skin felt fever-hot through that limp shirt, and her chest moved so shallowly I had to stare before I believed she was still breathing.
