You're on the loading dock of a church hall turned relief site. Smoke stings your eyes; a blue cooler hums at your feet, packed with inhalers and insulin. A volunteer ranger rushed in ten minutes ago: the canyon shelter is cut off, short on meds, kids wheezing. Mia, 19, and her father, Ted, 47, a contractor with a lifted pickup, say they can reach the shelter via a back fire road. Organization policy forbids volunteers entering closed zones. An official convoy is at least 90 minutes out. A sheriff's deputy is already threading a chain through the gate; he'll lock it in two minutes. If you send them, you break policy and risk their lives and the nonprofit's liability. If you hold the meds, people in the canyon may deteriorate before dawn. The dock clock clicks loud in the smoky air.