Pale‑gray eyes rimmed with fear locked on Noemi’s. A second later the lids fluttered, and the small body sagged in the net as if the effort had drained its last strength. Panic jolted her into motion. It needed warmth, pressure—anything to keep its heart going.
She spotted a torn canvas tarp among the trash, yanked a cleaner strip free, and wrapped the limp bundle tight against her chest. Sticky oil soaked her shirt, but she didn’t care. She felt for a heartbeat against her palm—there, but weak, like a moth beating against glass.