What started as a routine traffic assist—a minor fender bender at the light—quickly spiraled into something else. I was already halfway distracted, weighing whether to grab a quick bite from the food truck or resign myself to another soggy sandwich in the cruiser. Then, cutting through the afternoon hum, came a scream.
Not the angry, road-rage kind. This was raw—sharp, panicked, and deep. The kind that claws at your spine and refuses to let go.
We rushed over to the black sedan. The passenger door flung wide open. Inside, she sat—a young woman, barely out of her teens, soaked in sweat, gasping like she’d just run a marathon. Her fingers dug into the edges of the seat; her eyes wild, desperate. Around her, chaos: water spilled everywhere, blankets tossed aside, baby wipes scattered. A man was pacing nearby, glued to his phone, helpless.
“She’s crowning!” he shouted, voice cracking with panic. “Oh my God, she’s crowning!”
My stomach twisted. I glanced at her, then caught my partner’s eyes. His look said it all: Well?
