long. The child was a fighter, but how long could the spirit flourish when the body faced so many obstacles? If Prisha were here—receiving daily, one-on-one encouragement and treatment—her medical condition might not be life-threatening. But she wasn’t here, and Liz couldn’t do anything to help.
Her breath suddenly left her and she had to stop. Bending at the waist, she rested her hands on her thighs and tried to draw in enough air to keep her tears at bay. Prisha will be fine. She’ll get through this . And sometime within the next year, I’ll be flying over there to pick her up and bring her home with me.
“Hey, whaswrongwithyou?”
Liz lifted her head. Three boys on bikes. Not little boys. Young men, actually. They were too far away for her to see them clearly. Singly, none of the three would have appeared at all menacing, but as a group they gave off a sort of gangster vibe that made her wary.
Liz didn’t answer. She took a breath and started jogging again, giving them wide berth. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been paying attention to where she was running and had woundup in the middle of a large and completely empty church parking lot. She passed by the building nearly every day and there were always cars around. But not today.
“Damn,” she muttered.
The church occupied about a third of a block and was surrounded by residential neighborhoods, but the closest houses were well out of shouting range. She headed toward the intersection where there was bound to be traffic at this time of day. People on their way home to dinner. Busy, hungry people. Lots of them.
“Hey, you. You’re that Gypsy, ain’t you?” One of the boys called after her.
There was no missing the kid’s denigrating tone. Gypsy scum , she’d heard some boy say in the fourth grade. Her first introduction to prejudice.
Words can’t hurt you, her mother had said when Liz came home from school in tears. But Yetta was wrong. Words could be the precursor to violence. Liz had seen firsthand the tragic repercussions of ethnic hatred. Death and destruction had left a lasting impression on her mind.
She stopped running. She hated confrontation of any kind. The smart thing to do was to walk away, but she’d learned the hard way that ignoring the problem often led to bigger problems.
In Bosnia she’d noticed the small group of surly, smoking, angry men that gathered every day at a certain street corner. Sympathetic to all the horrors and losses the locals had incurred, she’d never reported them—even when one or two made lurid comments and taunting gestures.
She’d paid a high price for minding her own business. These boys are young. Maybe, I can still reach them, she thought.
She turned around. She had to hop over a low, whitechain that directed foot traffic away from the newly seeded yard encircling the playground the church had recently installed. She could smell the scent of cedar from the red-orange shavings under the jungle gym.
One of the boys swung his bike around to face her. He was biggest of the three and something about him seemed familiar. I’ve seen him before. Which made sense, she realized. He must know who she was since he’d called her a Gypsy.
All three were wearing sloppy, oversized jeans that were belted almost below their butts. Their ball caps were pulled low over their foreheads making their chins, uniformly adorned with acne and half a dozen whiskers, their most prominent features.
The glare of the setting sun put them in shadow. She blinked and stepped to one side. She wanted to see their eyes when she talked to them. She wasn’t afraid, even though she probably should have been. But this was broad daylight in a relatively public place, she reasoned.
Plus, after what happened to her in Bosnia, she’d learned self-defense. When she’d finally recovered sufficiently—physically—to travel, she’d gone to New Zealand to stay with a friend. The woman, a former relief worker Liz had met on her first
Her breath suddenly left her and she had to stop. Bending at the waist, she rested her hands on her thighs and tried to draw in enough air to keep her tears at bay. Prisha will be fine. She’ll get through this . And sometime within the next year, I’ll be flying over there to pick her up and bring her home with me.
“Hey, whaswrongwithyou?”
Liz lifted her head. Three boys on bikes. Not little boys. Young men, actually. They were too far away for her to see them clearly. Singly, none of the three would have appeared at all menacing, but as a group they gave off a sort of gangster vibe that made her wary.
Liz didn’t answer. She took a breath and started jogging again, giving them wide berth. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been paying attention to where she was running and had woundup in the middle of a large and completely empty church parking lot. She passed by the building nearly every day and there were always cars around. But not today.
“Damn,” she muttered.
The church occupied about a third of a block and was surrounded by residential neighborhoods, but the closest houses were well out of shouting range. She headed toward the intersection where there was bound to be traffic at this time of day. People on their way home to dinner. Busy, hungry people. Lots of them.
“Hey, you. You’re that Gypsy, ain’t you?” One of the boys called after her.
There was no missing the kid’s denigrating tone. Gypsy scum , she’d heard some boy say in the fourth grade. Her first introduction to prejudice.
Words can’t hurt you, her mother had said when Liz came home from school in tears. But Yetta was wrong. Words could be the precursor to violence. Liz had seen firsthand the tragic repercussions of ethnic hatred. Death and destruction had left a lasting impression on her mind.
She stopped running. She hated confrontation of any kind. The smart thing to do was to walk away, but she’d learned the hard way that ignoring the problem often led to bigger problems.
In Bosnia she’d noticed the small group of surly, smoking, angry men that gathered every day at a certain street corner. Sympathetic to all the horrors and losses the locals had incurred, she’d never reported them—even when one or two made lurid comments and taunting gestures.
She’d paid a high price for minding her own business. These boys are young. Maybe, I can still reach them, she thought.
She turned around. She had to hop over a low, whitechain that directed foot traffic away from the newly seeded yard encircling the playground the church had recently installed. She could smell the scent of cedar from the red-orange shavings under the jungle gym.
One of the boys swung his bike around to face her. He was biggest of the three and something about him seemed familiar. I’ve seen him before. Which made sense, she realized. He must know who she was since he’d called her a Gypsy.
All three were wearing sloppy, oversized jeans that were belted almost below their butts. Their ball caps were pulled low over their foreheads making their chins, uniformly adorned with acne and half a dozen whiskers, their most prominent features.
The glare of the setting sun put them in shadow. She blinked and stepped to one side. She wanted to see their eyes when she talked to them. She wasn’t afraid, even though she probably should have been. But this was broad daylight in a relatively public place, she reasoned.
Plus, after what happened to her in Bosnia, she’d learned self-defense. When she’d finally recovered sufficiently—physically—to travel, she’d gone to New Zealand to stay with a friend. The woman, a former relief worker Liz had met on her first
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