For one suspended second, I hesitated. Something felt wrong. The van was too quiet. Too abandoned. Then I pulled the door open.
The smell hit first — stale cigarettes, old food, sweat, and something metallic underneath it. I raised my phone flashlight, the thin beam slicing through darkness. That’s when I saw her. A little girl. Maybe seven years old. Curled into a tight ball near the back seat. Wearing pajama pants and a thin long-sleeve shirt, completely inadequate for the freezing temperature.
Her lips were pale blue. Frost clung to strands of her brown hair. Her eyes were closed. My brain stalled. Then instinct took over. I climbed inside, ignoring the stabbing pain in my leg. Near the driver’s seat, a man slumped forward over the steering wheel, unmoving. I didn’t check him. I didn’t need to.
My attention locked onto the girl. I pressed trembling fingers to her neck. A faint pulse. “She’s alive,” I breathed. I shrugged off my heavy winter coat and wrapped it tightly around her tiny frame. When I lifted her, her body felt terrifyingly light. Dead weight is different than conscious weight. It shifts unexpectedly.
Turning back toward the storm was worse. The wind felt stronger. The snow deeper. My left leg screamed in protest with every step. Twice I stumbled. Once I fell to one knee, nearly dropping her. I clutched her tighter. “I am not glass,” I growled under my breath. “I am not fragile.”
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