And in the back seat of the Honda, visible through the open door, a little girl in a car seat. Four years old. Brown hair in pigtails. Crying.
And sitting on the edge of the seat next to her, a skinny twelve-year-old boy wrapped in a woman’s green jacket. His face and neck and arm were bandaged. He was holding the little girl’s hand.
And the little girl was holding a gray stuffed bunny.
With one ear torn off and sewed back on crooked.
“A paramedic took that,” David Reyes said. “For the accident report. We got a copy through a records request.”
I stared at the picture.
“I don’t remember much,” Danny said. “From that night. Just pieces. The fire. The screaming. My mom. The truck.” He swallowed. “But I remember her.”
He pointed at the photograph. At the little girl in the car seat.
“After the truck,” he said, “the paramedics were working on your daughter. And the man. And my mom was still trapped. And everybody was running around and yelling. And nobody was watching the little girl. She was all alone in the back seat. Screaming for her mommy.”
