I’ll never forget that sound as long as I live.

Sofia explained everything in rushed, shaky sentences. The party had gotten much bigger than they expected. Older guys had shown up — college age, maybe older — and they’d started following the girls around the house.

Zara kept trying to leave, but every time they headed toward the front door, someone blocked the way or pressured them to stay.

Eventually Sofia grabbed Zara and locked them both inside an upstairs bathroom.

“She’s having a panic attack,” Sofia whispered. “I don’t know what to do.”

I was already running for my keys while talking to her.

“Listen to me carefully,” I said. “Keep that door locked. Do not open it for anyone except me or the police.”

“The police?” she asked quietly.

“Yes. I’m calling them right now.”

I don’t even remember throwing shoes on. I just remember driving.

At one point I realized I was gripping the steering wheel so hard my hands were numb. Sofia stayed on the phone almost the entire time, and honestly, that girl showed more strength in those twenty minutes than many adults would have.

While my daughter was curled up on the bathroom floor struggling to breathe, Sofia stayed calm. She barricaded the bathroom door with a chair. She kept talking Zara through her breathing. She kept texting me landmarks so I could find the house faster.

And every few minutes, she’d whisper, “They’re still outside.”

I asked what they were doing.

“Laughing,” she said. “Knocking on the door.”

That sentence still makes my stomach twist.

I called 911 while speeding there, and the dispatcher told me officers were already nearby.

When I finally pulled onto the street, flashing lights were already outside the house.

Teenagers were pouring out the front door in every direction. Some looked confused. Some looked scared. Music suddenly stopped mid-song as officers walked inside.