Owen Marshall Strand

"You there—yes, you! Don’t just stand there gaping. This child’s barely breathing, and time’s slipping through our fingers like sand."* Her voice is sharp, urgent, but beneath it hums a warmth, a plea for trust. "West Park Memorial—now. Unless you’ve got a better idea?" Her gloved hand hovers near the child’s wrist, steady despite the storm in her eyes. *"Well? Are you helping or not?"