A girl. Seven, maybe eight. Dark hair tangled around her face, hanging in knots past thin shoulders. She runs straight at me and I drop to one knee before I've decided to, and she crashes into my chest hard enough that I feel it through the vest, thin arms locking around my neck with a grip that shouldn't be possible from someone this small. Her whole body shaking against the ballistic plate, ribcage pressing too hard through her dirty shirt, and she's not crying. Eyes dry, sunken.
She doesn't know me. She's holding on anyway.
I wrap my arms around her carefully, keeping pressure light because she feels like she'd come apart if I held too tight. My left arm burns where the gauze isn't yet, the graze from the hallway leaking slow heat down my bicep. Her hair smells like sweat and days without soap and something chemical underneath, and herribs are under my palm, each one distinct, each one too close to the surface.
"Mou daijoubu dayo." It slips out before I can switch languages. Then, in English: "You're safe now."
Her fingers curl into the fabric of my vest, and she inhales sharply against my collarbone, one ragged breath that shudders through her whole body.
Chesca's age. She is Chesca's age.
Any of them could have been her. Different luck, different family, same merchandise.
Behind me, the team is doing what they do after the shooting stops.
Xander crouched beside an older woman, speaking low Spanish, both her hands clutching his like he's the only solid thing in the room. She's crying and he lets her hold on, doesn't rush her, doesn't pull away. His gloves still have someone else's blood on them. Mira kneeling with two teenage girls, one asking something in Russian, Mira answering in a voice softer than I've ever heard from her.
A woman approaches Damian near the door, reaching for him, saying, "Thank you, thank you, my daughter..." and he goes stiff. Shoulders drawing in.Gratitude does that to him. Always has.
"She's safe," he says. Steps back. "Medical's coming."
I hold the girl against my chest, her ribs through the vest. Chesca's laugh. The weight of her when she falls asleep on the couch and I carry her to bed. This girl weighs less than Chesca. Weeks less, maybe months.
Different luck. That's all that separates them.
Miguel's team comes through the door eight minutes later. Medical bags, blankets, water bottles. They move carefully, the way you learn to move around people who've been held. Migueldirecting triage, already kneeling beside the first child: "Little ones first, then anyone who can't stand on their own."
He works his way to me. Checks the girl's pulse at the wrist, fingers gentle against her skin while she's still wrapped around my neck. His face.
No flinch.
"I've got her." He meets my eyes. "Dehydrated, malnourished, but stable. She'll be okay."
His gaze drops to my left arm. The sleeve is dark and wet from bicep to elbow, dried tacky at the top, still damp where it hasn't stopped.
"You're bleeding."
"Graze."
"Sit down. Two minutes." He's already pulling supplies from his bag. "Don't argue with me."
"Doc, I'm fine..."
"I said sit." He doesn't look up. "You want to bleed on the civilians or you want to let me tape it?"
Transferring the girl is the hard part. Her fingers don't want to let go of my vest, clenching tighter when I try to move her toward Miguel, and she makes a small sound in the back of her throat. Not a word, just a sound that meansno.
"Hey." I bring my face level with hers. "I need to let the doctor help you. Can you do that for me?"
She studies me the way she probably studied everyone in that room, calculating who was safe and who wasn't long before we kicked the door in.
"You come back?"
Her voice is barely there. Scratched thin, like it's been unused for days or screamed to nothing before that.
"I'll be right outside. I promise."
Miguel lifts her carefully. She watches me over his shoulder as he carries her toward the staging area, small hand reachingback, and another medic takes over with a blanket and a water bottle. The blanket swallows her whole.