Thompson worked the door with practiced efficiency, the metal groaning as it gave way. Amelia watched with fascination rather than fear — to her, we were just more adults taking charge of a confusing situation.
"There we go," I said as the door swung open. "Now let's get you out of there."
I reached across her to work the car seat buckles, my hands steady despite the emotions churning in my chest. This close, I could smell her shampoo — something fruity and sweet — and see the small details that made her real. A friendship bracelet on her wrist, a tiny scar on her chin, a stuffed animal clutched in her lap.
"Who's this?" I asked, nodding toward the toy as I freed the last buckle.
"Mr. Bear," she said seriously. "He was scared in the car, so I've been holding him."
"That's very brave of you, taking care of Mr. Bear when he was scared."
I lifted her out of the car seat, surprised by how naturally she came to me, her small arms wrapping around my neck as I carried her away from the wreckage. She was so light, so trusting, and something deep in my chest cracked open at the feeling of her weight against me.
Jack from Medic 402 had arrived and was setting up his equipment. I caught his eye and mouthed "parents are code," and he nodded grimly, understanding immediately. Thompson and Martinez waited until she was safely out, in my arms, and well away from the car before anyone touched the front seats. That was the unspoken rule — we protectedthem from as much as we could, even when we couldn’t protect them from everything.
"Amelia," I said, settling down on the ambulance's rear bumper with her still in my arms. "The doctors at the hospital are going to want to make sure you're okay, even though you feel fine. Is that alright with you?"
She nodded, then looked back toward the car where Thompson and Martinez were now working to extract her parents' bodies. "When will Mommy and Daddy come home from the hospital?"
The question caught in my throat. Around us, the scene continued its organized efficiency — traffic being diverted, equipment being packed up, reports being written. Normal things happening while a little girl's world had just ended.
"I don't know, sweetheart," I said honestly. "The doctors will know more after they see them. But right now, someone is going to call your family to come get you. Do you have grandparents? Aunts and uncles?"
"Grandma Susan lives in the blue house with the big garden," Amelia said. "She makes cookies that look like flowers."
"That sounds wonderful. I bet Grandma Susan is going to want to see you very much."
Jack appeared beside us, his medical bag in hand. "Amelia, I'm Jack," he said, his Kiwi-accented voice gentle and smooth. "I'm a paramedic, which means I help people feel better. Can I check to make sure you're okay?"
As Jack did his assessment — checking her pupils, her reflexes, asking her simple questions — I found myself studying Amelia's face, memorizing the details. The way she answered Jack's questions with serious concentration. The way she kept Mr. Bear close but allowed the examination. The way she trusted us completely, even as her world fell apart around her.
"She looks good," Jack said quietly. "No signs of headinjury, no physical trauma. But they'll want to do a full workup at University Hospital's pediatric center, just to be sure."
I made a command decision. “Benny,” I called out. “You’re acting Lieutenant. Finish the scene cleanup.” I turned to Jack. “I’m riding with you to University Hospital.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. That wasn't standard protocol — once the patient was in their care, the fire department's job was typically done. But he saw something in my face that made him nod.
"Sure, L.T. We'll make room."
As we loaded into the ambulance, Amelia still clutching Mr. Bear, she looked up at me with those trusting brown eyes.
"Izzy, are you going to stay with me?"
"For as long as I can, sweetheart," I said, settling onto the bench beside her stretcher. "For as long as I can."
The ride to University Hospital was one of gentle conversation and careful monitoring. Amelia told me about her school, about her best friend Kayla, about how she was learning to read chapter books. Normal seven-year-old chatter that became heartbreaking when you knew the context.
When we couldn't think of anything else to talk about, I found myself telling her stories — modified fairy tales where the princesses were firefighters and the dragons were just misunderstood. She listened with rapt attention, occasionally asking questions or adding her own details to the narrative.
"Do you think the princess could teach real dragons to be nice?" she asked as we pulled into the hospital.
"I think if anyone could do it, it would be her," I said. "Princesses are very good at understanding what dragons need."
At the hospital, things moved quickly. A whole team of medical professionals descended on Amelia with the kind of gentle efficiency that made University Hospital's pediatric unit famous. Through it all, Amelia stayed calm, answeringquestions and following instructions with the resilience that children somehow managed even in impossible circumstances.
I stayed until a social worker arrived with news that Amelia's grandmother was on her way from three hours upstate. Until child protective services had established temporary custody. Until Amelia was settled in a room with a nurse who specialized in helping children process trauma.
"Will I see you again, Izzy?" Amelia asked as I prepared to leave.
