"Engine 18, Truck 12, Medic 402, respond to Highway 45 eastbound at Maple Street for motor vehicle accident with possible entrapment. Be advised, caller reports at least two vehicles involved, unknown injuries."
I was moving before the dispatcher finished speaking, Thompson and Martinez already heading for their gear. The afternoon had been quiet — routine equipment checks, some training drills, the kind of shift that let you catch up on sleep and paperwork. But highway accidents had a way of changing everything in an instant.
"Let's go," I called out, swinging into the officer's seat as Benny fired up the engine. "Thompson, pull a full extrication setup. If we've got entrapment, we'll need the works."
The drive to Highway 45 took four minutes through moderate traffic. Four minutes to run through the tactical considerations — positioning for safety, traffic control, coordination with the truck company for any heavy lifting. Four minutes to prepare for whatever we'd find at the scene.
We were first on location. What we found made my stomach drop.
A family sedan — a grey Honda CRV — had been T-boned by a semi truck at the intersection. The impact had crumpled the driver's side like a tin can, pushing the car nearly thirty feet from the point of collision. The truck sat jackknifed across both eastbound lanes, its driver standing beside the cab with his hands on his head, looking dazed but uninjured.
"Engine 18 on scene," I radioed, my voice automatically shifting into command mode. "We have a two-vehicle MVA, one passenger car with severe damage, one semi. Establishing command. Engine 18 will handle patient care and extrication. Truck 12, secure the scene and set up for heavy rescue if needed."
I began my 360-degree survey of the vehicle, my bootscrunching on shattered glass. The two adults in the front seats … were gone. The injuries were catastrophic, incompatible with life. My mind registered it with a cold, professional detachment. A problem that could not be solved. My focus immediately shifted. “Check the back seat!” I yelled to Martinez, who was right behind me.
A child's voice, thin and frightened: "Mommy? Daddy? Wake up.Please."
Through the spider-webbed rear window, I could see a little girl, maybe six or seven years old, still strapped into her booster seat. She appeared physically unharmed — no visible blood, moving normally — but she was reaching forward, trying to touch the motionless forms in the front seats.
"Mommy, we need to go home now. Daddy, wake up."
“Martinez, C-spine precautions, but I’m going in with you,” I said, my voice tight. “Thompson, get the Halligan, but hold off on the hydraulics until I say so. I don’t want to scare her more than we have to.”
I moved to the rear passenger door, my hands already assessing the damage. The frame was twisted but not severely — this would be a relatively straightforward extrication. The real challenge would be everything else.
"Hi there, sweetheart," I said, kneeling down to the child's eye level through the broken window. "My name is Izzy. I'm a firefighter, and I'm here to help you."
She looked at me with wide brown eyes, tears streaking down her cheeks. She had dark hair in pigtails, a pink t-shirt with a cartoon character I didn't recognize, and the kind of trusting expression that made my chest tight.
"My mommy and daddy won't wake up," she said, her voice steady despite the tears. "I keep calling them, but they're not answering."
Behind me, I could hear Thompson and Martinez setting up the extrication equipment, the controlled efficiency of a crew that had done this hundreds of times. Miller's truck companywas establishing traffic control, setting up cones and flares to protect our work area. The organized chaos of a rescue operation in full swing.
But all of that faded into background noise as I focused on the small face in front of me.
"What's your name, honey?" I asked, my voice gentle.
"Amelia," she said. "Amelia Rose Patterson. I'm seven."
"That's a beautiful name, Amelia. And seven is a very important age." I was working on the door mechanism as I talked, testing the latches and hinges. "Amelia, I need to ask you something very important. Does anything hurt? Your head, your arms, your tummy?"
She shook her head solemnly. "No, nothing hurts. But I can't get out of my seat, and Mommy always helps me with the buckles."
The door was stuck but not crushed. Thompson appeared at my shoulder with the Halligan bar.
"L.T., we can pop this in about thirty seconds," he said quietly. "How do you want to play it?"
I glanced toward the front seat, then back to Amelia. She couldn't see her parents from her position — the seats blocked her view of the worst of the damage — but that wouldn't last long once we got her out.
"Nice and easy," I said. "Let me talk her through it first."
I turned back to Amelia, forcing my voice to stay calm and reassuring. "Amelia, we're going to help you get out of your car seat, okay? My friend Thompson is going to open the door, and then I'm going to help you with those buckles."
"But what about Mommy and Daddy?" she asked, craning her neck to try to see into the front seat. "They need to get out, too."
The question threatened to overwhelm me. How do you explain death to a seven-year-old? How do you tell a child that the two most important people in her world are never waking up?
"My other friends are taking care of Mommy and Daddy right now," I said carefully. "They're very good at their jobs, just like I'm good at mine. But they need to go to the hospital so the doctors can help them. Right now, my job is to take care of you."
