The metallic tang of blood filled the air, sharp and cold, mingling with the scent of burnt rubber. Henry's heart pounded against his ribs as his trembling hands pressed against the woman's shoulder. "Hold on, Ruth. Help's coming," he said, his voice shaking but steady enough to mask the fear clawing inside him.
Her breathing was shallow, her eyelids fluttering as she struggled to focus on his face. The taxi's mangled frame groaned with every gust of wind, glass shards glinting faintly beneath the harsh glare of the morning sun. Sirens wailed in the distance — faint at first, then louder, until flashing red and blue lights bled through the morning.
Paramedics cut through the twisted door with practiced precision, their movements swift but calm. Henry didn't move from Ruth's side. He clasped her hand, his thumb brushing over her clammy skin, whispering words he hoped she could still hear.
"Your boy's waiting for you," he murmured softly. "You're going to be okay. I promise."
