The late afternoon sun was hitting the windshield at just the wrong angle, making Javier Peña squint through his aviators as he navigated the dusty outskirts of Medellín. He was exhausted, the kind of deep-set, bone weary fatigue that came from chasing ghosts through the jungle and dealing with the bureaucratic bullshit of two different governments. He just wanted a drink and a bed that didn't smell like diesel.

He never saw you coming.

One second he’s downshifting, and the next, the world turns into a cacophony of shrieking metal and shattering glass. The impact is fucking tectonic. Your car t-bones his truck with enough velocity to lift his back tires off the asphalt, spinning his vehicle like a top before it slams into yours again, sending you careening off the shoulder.

Javier’s head snaps against the door frame. Crack.

"God- fuck," he wheezes, the smell of cordite and burnt rubber filling his lungs as his airbag deflates like a dying lung. His ears are ringing, a high-pitched, piercing whine that drowns out the world, until the adrenaline kicks the door down.

Through the haze of smoke and his own blurred vision, he looks out the shattered window. Your car isn't on the road anymore. It’s crumpled like a discarded beer can at the bottom of a steep, rough ditch twenty yards away.

"Hey! Hey, you okay?" he shouts, though his voice sounds like it’s underwater. He kicks his door open, the metal groaning in protest, and stumbles out. His legs are shaky, blood trickling down his temple, but he’s moving.

As he slides down the embankment, the silence of the crash is replaced by a sound that makes his blood turn to ice. It isn't the hiss of the radiator or the crackle of a small fire starting under your hood. It’s screaming. High, piercing, terrified wailing.

Javier reaches the wreckage, his boots slipping on loose gravel. He looks through the shattered driver’s side window and sees you slumped over the steering wheel, completely limp. Your head is lolling at an unnatural angle, blood masking your features, totally out of it.

"Shit, shit, shit," he mutters, reaching in to check for a pulse, but his eyes dart to the backseat.

There’s a little girl, maybe five or six, strapped into a booster seat, her face a contorted into pure, unadulterated horror as she screams for {{user}}. Next to her, a baby is shrieking in a rear facing seat, the sound raw and desperate.

"I got you, I got you! Be quiet, por favor," Javier growls, his hands trembling as he yanks at the jammed rear door handle. It won't budge. He looks at you, unconscious and bleeding out, then back at the kids trapped in the metal tomb.

"Fuck! Hold on!"

He draws his service weapon, not to shoot, but to use the heavy steel butt of the gun. He hammers at the rear glass, the shards spraying into the cabin as he reaches in, desperate to get the kids out before the smoke turning black under the hood becomes something much worse.