Esme pulled a deep breath in through her nose and blew it out slowly with pursed lips. She heard the baby retch behind her. Her seatbelt slid over her as she unbuckled and made the awkward climb into the Toyota Sienna’s middle row. Esme flashed a quick, grim smile at her son Matty, but he ignored her, absorbed in a fight to the death on his tablet.

Isabella, almost two, had vomited on and off the entire 12-hour drive. She held some satisfaction over her husband Marcus that she had been right about flying. Esme plopped into the space next to her miserable daughter and buckled up. She strained against the vinyl strap and snagged the last paper towel from a roll on the floor.

“It’s okay, Bella,” she crooned as she wiped the chunks of french fries from Isabella’s chubby cheeks and the buckles over her small chest. The wipes container opened with a crack. Esme yanked several out and began a more thorough cleaning.

“Do we need to pull over?” called Marcus from the driver’s seat.

“Let’s just get there.” Esme snapped. She sighed again and rubbed her throbbing temples. Isabella whimpered, then started to cry. Soon, steady sobs filled the vehicle, punctuated by shrieks of rage.

“Almost there,” Marcus said through clenched teeth. “Thirty more minutes.”

Esme cast a backward glance. Six-year-old Mateo, dubbed “Matty” before they even took him home from the hospital, continued to tap at his screen. Her gaze next stopped on her teenage daughter. Sofia lounged back, her belt strap a makeshift hammock that looped behind her instead of over her chest. Bright red earbuds stuck partially out of her ears, which looked to Esme like an appalling infection. 

Sofia noticed Esme’s attention and grimaced. She met her mother’s gaze and then stared out the window, expressionless. Esme’s stare lowered slightly to Sofia’s left shoulder, where a brand new tattoo gleamed over reddened skin. She turned around and thought about their explosive argument the day before, after Sofia had waltzed into the house in spaghetti straps, which brazenly displayed her rebellious act.

Esme had to admit, the tattoo was beautiful. Thin lines curled, traveled together, then met and crossed, creating a wandering pattern over her daughter’s caramel canvas. She turned her attention to Isabella and murmured, “Está bien mi amor.” Gentle hands stroked the dark curls from the toddler’s sweaty forehead.

She sang a soft lullaby when she felt a lurch pull her suddenly forward as Marcus slammed on the brakes.

“JESUS!” Marcus roared. He yanked the steering wheel to the left. The flash of a semi spinning on the highway flashed by the windshield, then the windows on their right. Screams erupted from behind him. The Milton family bounced and jolted against their seatbelts as the van hit the sandy median. As they slowed quickly in the tall grass, Marcus tried to calm his breathing.

“Everyone ok back there?” 

“What the hell, Dad?” Sofia chirped, scared and annoyed.

“Sofia!” yelled Esme.

Marcus took another deep breath. “That was close,” he said to no one in particular.

Everyone fell silent as they heard the scrape of metal and the chime of breaking glass. Esme, an ER nurse at her local hospital, immediately tensed.

Marcus glanced at her sharply. “Do you have to?” he said, though he already knew what she would say.

Esme shot him a look, unbuckled, and said, “You of all people know I do. Call 911 and stay here,” as she stepped out of the van and ran toward the crash site.

As Esme sprinted toward the smoking wreckage, her expensive sandals caught and ripped at the tall grass with each long stride. She approached the vehicles and smelled acrid smoke. The truck lay on its side, the trailer on its wheels, but at an odd angle. A white sedan jutted out from the larger vehicle’s undercarriage, hood crumpled like discarded paper. She glimpsed a man slumped over the steering wheel, face covered by what remained of the airbag.

She quickly triaged the situation and ran toward the sedan. Esme opened the driver’s door and touched gently shook the man’s forearm. No movement. Her fingers felt for the inside of the man’s wrist, felt for the radial artery. Strong pulse. Her gaze searched and saw the windshield had shattered. Was that blood on the hood? 

Esme straightened, stepped up on the door frame. And then she noticed her. The woman crumpled between the vehicle’s destroyed front half and the sizable dent in the semi’s white aluminum side.

“Santa mierda,” she cursed as she jumped down and dashed around the trunk.

When Esme got closer, she could see the woman wasn’t pinned. The force of the impact threw her from the passenger seat a millisecond after the sedan made contact with the trailer. The woman lay on her right side, arm jammed underneath her at an awkward angle, legs curled up, almost in the fetal position.

She wasn’t moving.

“Ma’am?” Esme demanded loudly. “Ma’am? Can you hear me?”

Esme reached over the woman and rubbed her knuckles over the woman’s sternum to check for a pain response. A groan escaped the woman’s lips. 

“Please,” she said weakly.

“What’s your name?” Esme asked.

“Patty.” She groaned again and pushed herself up shakily.

“Ok, don’t move Patty,” Esme said with authority.

The woman ignored her, grimaced as she sat all the way up.

“I said, do not move,” Esme repeated with force. She heard the faint whisper of sirens.

The bewildered woman scooted herself to the edge of the crushed hood and slid down until her feet touched the pavement. She looked Esme square in the eyes, took a step, and collapsed.

Esme grabbed for her and eased her down onto her back. She lay very still. Her complexion was gray. Esme pressed her index and middle fingers on the carotid artery under the woman’s jaw. Nothing. She wasn’t breathing, either. Esme cursed as she realized she’d forgotten her mouth shield in the car. 

She shook the thought away, and placed her stacked hands, palms down, fingers interlaced, elbows locked, and began pushing on the woman’s chest rhythmically. Esme counted out loud, the panted numbers climbing with her concern.

Sofia idly swung her headphones on their cord. She was so bored. Why did Mama have to go over there anyway? She thinks she’s so important, Sofia thought, and rolled her eyes. She eyed Isabella, who still cried steadily.

Her expression softened as she watched her little sister. She unbuckled, leaned forward, and unfastened the baby’s straps. Isabella’s cries faltered as relief and simple happiness replaced her pinched features. Sofia pulled her out and onto her lap.

“Hi sweet girl,” she murmured. Then the smell hit her like a slap. “Oh my God!” she yelped. The shout startled Isabella, who screamed in earnest. “Dad! Bella stinks! Get her away from me!”

Marcus twisted in his seat. “Geez, Sof, don’t shout at her!” He stretched his arms out, gripped the small torso, and pulled her from Sofia, who made dramatic gagging sounds. 

He pushed open his door and laid the baby down to change her. He stretched and yawned, craned his neck to see what Esme was doing. He couldn’t see anything. Sirens wailed and he watched a line of emergency vehicles hurry closer.

An hour later, Esme trudged into the grass. By this point, her entire family had vacated the van and rested in various poses surrounding it. Matty noticed her first. His head jerked up and a crooked grin bloomed. He sprung to his feet and ran towards her.

“Oye, mijo,” she smiled. As he got closer, though, his smile fell and his brow furrowed. She slowed. Then she understood. She knew half-dried smears of dark red painted her skin.

Mierda, she cursed. “It’s ok,” she said aloud, “it’s not mine.”

Matty hesitated. “Whose is it?”

“The lady I tried to help.”

“Is she ok?”

Esme cringed. She debated whether to lie to her 6-year-old. “I don’t know, mijo. She’s hurt pretty bad.” She finally got to him and gathered him into a hug. He stood stiff in her arms. She released him and strode towards the van. 

“Can you toss me a water bottle?” she asked Marcus, who nodded lobbed his over to her. She caught it easily. Cool liquid rolled from her elbows to her fingertips. She scrubbed and scrubbed; watched the blood flake and run off into the grass. 

“Any fatalities?” Marcus asked. He had been a paramedic before he was injured a few years ago. His back was still stiff and painful most days. 

“Marcus,” Esme glared at him, and glanced pointedly at Matty.

Red bloomed across Marcus’s face and neck. “Let’s go,” he said roughly.

“The police want to talk to you.”

Marcus saw an officer striding toward him. He rubbed his brow with the palm of one hand. This was going to take a while.

Editor: Michelle Naragon