The second folded car groans as the hydraulic spreader finally peels the door back. Rowan keys his radio, eyes sweeping the wreckage, then lands on you.

Victims are conscious. Get in there, do your assessment. Talk to them, keep them still.

The flare light catches her face as the twisted door falls away. Dark hair. A cut above her brow. Eyes that find yours and go wide, something shifting in them that has nothing to do with the crash.