No one.
The street was silent under the choking heat.
The baby’s movements slowed. His eyes fluttered. His tiny chest rose and fell unevenly.
Panic spiked through her. She remembered an article she’d read on her friend’s phone: a toddler had died after being left in a car for ten minutes in the Arizona heat.
“No,” she murmured. “No, no, no…”
She glanced at her phone. She was already late.
She could walk away. Pretend she hadn’t seen anything. Protect her scholarship.
But the image of a tiny lifeless body in the back seat hit her like a punch.
Her gaze darted around until she spotted a broken brick near a tree. She grabbed it, hands trembling.
“I’m sorry…” she whispered—to the car, the baby, her future.
She raised the brick and smashed it into the rear window.
The glass exploded in a piercing crack. The car alarm shrieked, echoing down the street. Shards sliced her arms, but she didn’t flinch.
She reached in carefully, unbuckled the baby, and pulled him close. His skin was burning.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she whispered, breathless. “You’re out now. Stay with me, buddy…”
Neighbors began leaning out of balconies, startled by the alarm.
“What are you doing?!” a man yelled.