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When the earthquake struck, I was pinned beneath a concrete slab, a piece of rebar driven straight through my thigh. My husband, Quincy Gray, was the captain of the rescue team. When he came past my position with his search dog, I screamed for help with everything I had. He heard me. But he stopped just three meters away, and called out through the rubble, "Mia, you're professionally trained. Your vitals are stable. Just hang in there a little longer." "Serena has severe claustrophobia—she's crying. I have to get to her first." Right at that moment, an aftershock hit. The ruins collapsed a second time. I watched helplessly as he sprinted away, carrying Serena Perry in his arms—completely unscathed—while I was swallowed into endless darkness. Seventy-two hours later, I was pulled out. They had to amputate my right leg to free me. Quincy stood outside the ICU holding a bouquet. He frowned at me and said, "Mia, stop throwing a tantrum. Serena was just terrified. You're still alive, aren't you?"