“Pull over,” he said, and the driver, startled enough to glance in the rearview, did.

The rear door opened with a soft thunk. Heat swarmed in. Ethan stepped onto the sidewalk and into a circle of strangers making space the way people do when they hope someone else will take responsibility. The woman on the ground had the delicate look of a person who had been strong for too long. Her hair was gathered into a bun that had stopped negotiating with the day. Dust smudged her cheekbone. The twins—one in a faded yellow T-shirt with a cartoon shark, the other in a pink dress with a loose hem—were trying to climb back onto her lap as if proximity alone could restart the world.

“Is anyone calling 911?” Ethan asked.

“Already did,” said a man in a Dodgers cap, holding up his phone.

Ethan crouched, palms open. “Ma’am? Can you hear me?”

Her eyelids flickered. “Where…? The babies.” Her voice reached and broke.