“You’re… just a baby.”
“I’m seven,” Ava insisted, because it mattered. “And I’m strong.”
Ava crawled to the older officer—Sergeant Paul Hargrove—who lay face down in the snow. Duke pressed his body against Paul’s side, sharing heat the way he always did with Ava. Ava found a wool blanket in the back seat and dragged it out, covering Paul the best she could.
When the first emergency vehicles arrived, Ava backed into the tree line with Duke, ready to disappear. But a paramedic shouted, “They’re alive! Get them on stretchers!”
Alive.
Ava had done something that mattered.
Then a heavy hand grabbed her shoulder.
She spun, panicked—only to face a deputy in a winter hat, eyes sharp and scanning.
“Hey—who are you?” he demanded. “Were you the caller?”
Ava’s throat locked. Her instincts screamed to run. Duke growled low, not loud enough to draw attention, but enough to warn.
