I reach the woman first. She’s wearing an Ohio State sweatshirt. Denim shorts. White legs smeared with blood. “Ma’am?”
She groans, a deep, raw sound. When she looks at me, her eyes are dull and unfocused. “Wha—? I don’t … what happened.” Realization kicks in, and then she screams, “Lucy!” She moves, and then, “Oh, God! My leg! Ohmigod!”
I kneel beside her. “I’m a police officer. Try to stay calm. We’re going to get you out of here.” I run my eyes over her, looking for visible injuries, and wince at the sight of the white-pink bone protruding through the skin at her shin. Compound fracture. Jesus. “Where else are you hurt? Are you in pain?”
“My leg!” she cries. “Oh, God! It hurts like a son of a bitch!”
“Ma’am, is there a child here with you? Anyone else?”
“Lucy,” she whimpers. “My baby! She was right here. I was holding her when everything just … exploded. Oh, God. Ohmigod! Where is she?” She rolls onto her side and lets out a scream that makes every nerve in my body jump.
“I’ll find her. You just lie still.” I look over at the playpen. Fear swirls in my gut when I see a tiny hand protruding from beneath it. Little fingers curled and not moving. In the back of my mind, it registers that I haven’t heard a cry in several seconds. She should be crying.
“I see her,” I say.
“Where? Where is she? Where is she!”
“We’ve got her.” Tomasetti kneels, sets his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “What’s your name?”
“P-Paula,” she says. “Paula Kester.”
I don’t think about what I’m doing as I stumble past a splintered table. I fall to my knees, set my hands on the playpen rails, and lift it. I choke out a sound when I see the tiny baby. Its face is blue and scrunched up. Mouth open and quivering. I see pink gums. Eyes that aren’t quite right. Blood on its chin. Glass shimmers on a little onesie that’s been nearly torn from its tiny body.
Holding the playpen up with one arm, I reach for the infant. Her skin is wet and cool to the touch. I know better than to move an injured patient. If they have a spinal injury, any kind of movement could do more harm than good. But with the smell of gas present, I don’t have a choice.
“Come here, little one.” Grasping the baby’s ankle, I pull her toward me as gently as I can manage. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re okay. You’re safe now.”
“Lucy?” comes the mother’s voice. “Why isn’t she crying? Why isn’t she crying?”
When the baby is clear, I lower the playpen and carefully lift her into my arms. “I’ve got her.”
I glance over to see the woman propped on an elbow. Her face is bleeding and red, her expression twisted in pain, tears streaming from her eyes. “My baby! Oh, my baby! Is she hurt? What’s wrong with her?”
“We need to get you out of here. Both of you. Right now.” Tomasetti’s voice cuts through her panic. Deep. Authoritative. No room for argument.
I glance over to see him shoving debris aside, his eyes on the woman. “There’s a gas leak,” he tells her, “so I’m going to lift you and carry you out through that window over there. That all right with you?”
“Oh, God. Gas. Please! Just take care of my baby.”
I hold the child against my chest. I make eye contact with Tomasetti as I brush past him and start toward the window. The smell of gas is stronger now. Building inside the small space. I quicken my pace.
Behind me, I hear the woman moaning. Tomasetti reassuring her as he moves her. I stumble past toppled furniture, the buckled floor, the overturned refrigerator. The baby is limp and soft and frighteningly quiet in my arms as I drop to my knees and scrabble through the window. Holding her against me with one arm, doing my best to protect her from the glass and splintered frame, I crawl through. All I can think about is getting the baby out.
Then I’m free of the trailer. On my knees, holding the child against me. I turn, relieved to see Tomasetti a few feet behind me. He’s carrying the woman. I see exertion in his face. Stress in the way his mouth is pulled tight. A moan of pain tears from her throat with every step he takes.
Sirens blare all around. I look over to see a Painters Mill fire truck next to Tomasetti’s Tahoe. Clutching the baby, I jog toward the firefighter as he disembarks. A tremor of fear moves through me when I glance down and see that the baby’s face is purple.
“She’s not breathing!” I scream. “I need a paramedic!”
Tossing his hat onto the ground, the firefighter sprints toward me, arms forward and reaching. “Is she choking? Is her airway clear?”
“I don’t know! She was beneath a piece of furniture.”