As a child you don’t necessarily see or understand the gravity or magnitude of a situation. One minute everything is absolutely fine, the next minute you’re caught in the middle of a war zone. The pop-pop-pop of gunfire ringing out near your home sets off internal alarms. Crying, reaching your short, stubby arms into the air for your mother or father. It’s your way of saying pick me up and keep me safe.
Only what happens next is something you don’t understand. No one is there to pick you up or hear you cry until a soldier bursts through your front door, sweeping each room for enemies.
The rules say he isn’t supposed to do anything to help save you; he goes against those rules and grabs you from your crib.