The process saved me. Not emotionally — nothing saved me emotionally that night. But procedure gave my rage somewhere to stand without becoming useless.

Photograph. Bag. Log. Witness. Repeat.

At 12:46 a.m., Daniel called again.

This time the deputy told me to answer. He placed his recorder on the counter. Alan stood beside Emily’s bed. The nurse turned down the monitor volume just enough that the room became painfully clear.

I answered on speaker.

“Richard?” Daniel said. His voice was breathless. Too breathless. Like he’d been running, or pretending to.