The apartment was a furnace. Smoke pressed into my mouth and throat until it felt like swallowing ash. Someone yelled, “There’s a baby!” and every step after that was only one mission: find her. We moved fast, low, hands sweeping through heat and darkness. Behind the couch, I found a 2-year-old folded into the smallest space—limp, lips gray, silent.
I got her out. I hit the ground outside and started CPR like my life depended on it, because in that moment it did. One breath. Two compressions. Again. Again. The world narrowed to rhythm and refusal. People think there’s a dramatic moment where you “save” someone.
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