It was supposed to be a routine traffic stop—a minor fender bender at the intersection, nothing out of the ordinary. I was already thinking about lunch, trying to decide between grabbing something from the taco truck or settling for another soggy sandwich in the squad car. That’s when I heard it.
A scream. Not the usual yelling between frustrated drivers. This one was different—sharp, panicked, and deep. The kind that stops you cold.
We rushed over to the black sedan. The passenger door was wide open. Inside was a young woman, early twenties maybe, soaked in sweat and breathing like she’d just finished a marathon. She was clutching the seat with both hands, eyes wide and frantic. There was water everywhere. Blankets. Baby wipes. And a guy pacing around on his phone—completely useless.
