It was supposed to be a routine traffic assist—fender bender at the light, nothing major. I was already thinking about lunch, debating whether to hit the food truck or settle for another soggy sandwich in the cruiser. Then I heard it.
A scream. Not the angry, cussing-out-another-driver kind. No—this was sharp, panicked, and deep. The kind that grabs you by the spine.
We bolted over to the black sedan. The passenger door was wide open, and inside—there she was. A young woman, maybe early twenties, drenched in sweat, panting like she’d run five miles. Her hands gripped the sides of the seat, eyes wild. Water everywhere. Blankets. Baby wipes. And a man pacing on his phone, useless.
“She’s crowning!” he yelled. “Oh my god, she’s crowning!”
My stomach flipped. I looked at her, then at my partner. He just stared at me like, Well?
