“Emily,” she responds, her voice small and shaky but clear enough to indicate no immediate respiratory distress.
“Okay, Emily, I’m climbing in from the front to help you. Please keep as still as you can for me, alright?”
She nods, wincing as the movement jostles her.
I’m careful not to shake the car as it groans beneath me. Half-kneeling on the driver’s seat, I can get a better look at her.
It’s worse than I thought. The impact has driven the broken bar up and into her thigh, but at least the metal shard appears to be staunching most of the bleeding.
I distract her as I consider our options. “Tell me about yourself. Do you go to school around here?”
“Yeah,” she says through gritted teeth. “I’m in eighth grade.”
“Eighth grade, huh? What’s your favorite subject?”
“Art. I—I like to draw.”
“That’s awesome. What do you draw?”
Diaz arrives at the car ready to wrestle the backdoor open. I lose Emily’s attention. She looks down and her eyes widen at the sight of the metal piercing her flesh.
“Hey, Emily, look at me, not at your leg.” I block her view with my arm. “Tell me more about your art. Do you have a favorite artist?”
She peers around me. “Is it bad? My leg?”
“It’s hurt, but we’ll take care of it,” I say, maintaining eye contact. “The important thing is that you’re alive and chatting with me. Now, about that favorite artist?”
I keep her talking while Diaz and the others work to pry the door open.
“The door’s not budging,” Diaz reports after several attempts with the spreaders. “Frame’s too compromised.”
“We’ll have to go through the front and cut the seat,” I decide. “Get the sawzall and a full medical kit.”
Emily’s becoming more agitated, and her breathing quickens as she picks up on the concern in our voices. “Am I going to lose my leg?” she asks, voice cracking.
“No, you’re not. But we need to be careful about how we get you out. I’ve got you, I promise.”
She doesn’t look convinced. “My mom,” she says, tears welling up again. “Is she okay? She was driving.” Emily talks between agitated sobs. “This is all my fault, I wanted to take a video of the dawn for my Instagram, and then a dog cut in our path and Mom lost control. Is she okay?”
I hesitate, torn between being honest but also not wanting to add to her distress. “Another firefighter is taking care of her right now,” I say, which is accurate enough. “She’s getting the help she needs.”
The medical kit arrives, and I secure a tourniquet above her cut while explaining to Emily what we’re going to do. “We’ll cut part of the seat to free your leg,” I tell her. “When we do that, your leg might bleed more, but I’ve got equipment to stop it. The most important thing is for you to stay as still as possible.”
Emily nods, but terror is building in her eyes. She’s turning pale; blood loss, shock, maybe both—I can’t be sure. Diaz positions the sawzall, ready to cut through the metal frame. “On your mark, Lieutenant.”
“Emily, I’m going to hold your hand, okay?” I say, removing my glove and reaching out. She grabs onto me with surprising strength, her small fingers cold in my palm. “Squeeze as hard as you need to.”
I give Diaz the nod, and the blade whines to life, the harsh noise filling the cramped space. Emily flinches but holds still.
The metal gives way with a groan, and everything happens at once. Emily lifts her leg clear of the shard in an instinctive jerk. With nothing holding it back, blood—bright arterial red—spurts upward in a pulsing arc, the tourniquet not strong enough to hold it.
“Shit!” I let go of her hand and clamp down on her thigh, searching for the artery in the open gush. I pinch it between my thumb and index finger.
Emily screams, a sound of pure terror rather than pain. She looks down to see the damage.
“Eyes on me, Emily! Right here!” I command, my voice firm but gentle despite the adrenaline surging through me. “Look at my face, nowhere else.”
Her panicked gaze locks onto mine, her breathing coming in ragged gasps.
