The silence in the kitchen became absolute. The rhythmic ticking of the wall clock sounded like a judge’s gavel. The raw biscuits sitting on the counter suddenly felt like irrelevant relics from a different, peaceful lifetime that had just been violently stolen from us.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream or curse God. I gently pulled the cold washcloth from my daughter’s face, kissed the top of her blood-matted head, and stood up. I walked calmly down the hallway and engaged the heavy deadbolt on the solid oak front door.
The time for baking was over.
Chapter 2: The Call to Arms
Panic is a luxury reserved for those who have someone else to save them. When you are the last line of defense, panic is a death sentence.
I returned to the kitchen and began a rapid, clinical assessment. Her pupils were equal and reactive, though sluggish. Her ribs were severely bruised, possibly cracked, but she was not demonstrating the paradoxical breathing that indicated a punctured lung. However, the most critical patient in the room was the one I couldn’t see. An eight-week pregnancy subjected to blunt force trauma is a ticking clock.
