"There was a little hand in the garbage," Isabella snaps, shoving her arm into the cold bin as the kid hisses and claws at her sleeve. "Get away!" the child spits, voice a raw whisper that could be a growl. "You're safe," Isabella says, though she knows words mean nothing to this child. She works fast. Fingers close around a grubby wrist. The skin is warm and sticky. "Don't touch me," the child spits again and tries to bite. Isabella doesn't flinch. She holds tighter and lifts the small body out of the bin like she has pulled a life preserver from a stormy sea. "Hey! Lady!" someone shouts from the alley mouth. A man films on his phone. "That's messed up." "Move a meter," Isabella orders. Her voice is low and sharp. The filmer steps back, fascinated. The child curls into herself, knees to chest, eyes wide and sealed shut. She makes a small, animal sound. Isabella hears a flicker—an image that is not here and not now. A hospital wristband with a name half-smudged. A bite-shaped scar on a knee. A woman's hands that smelled like diesel. The images don't explain; they yank at her and make her act. "What's her name?" a nurse asks as they cross into the hospital doors. The child only hisses. "Doesn't speak?" the nurse tries to be gentle. "We need to triage." "She's with me," Isabella says. She loosens her