The feeling of dread doesn't abate as Stella realizes that underneath what she now recognizes as a long coat is a child, unmoving and possibly unconscious, lying on their stomach. "Jesus Christ," she breathes, talking to herself, and crouches down next to the child, getting the coat under her hands and using it to roll the body over as carefully as she possibly can.

She's no medical expert, but she can feel for a pulse, fingers pressed to the side of the child's neck — a little girl, if she had her guess, though she could be wrong. Stella breathes out once in relief when she feels the heartbeat under her fingertips, faint but there. It's not over. There's hope.

The next thing she does is to move clothing to check for injuries and to start talking, in as reassuring a tone as she can manage; she doesn't even know whether she'll be heard, but she'll try, just in case. "It's all right. I'm not going to hurt you. Can you hear me?"