apparently, and panic quickly ensued.
When another massive wail failed to catch his attention, Michy scrambled down from her perch, dropped her hot dog and drink onto the bench, and took off. She vaulted over the concrete barricade like a professional hurdler and sprinted down the beach like an escaped convict.
“Shit.” Sam dropped her hot dog onto the paper wrapper, grabbed her bag, and bolted after her.
She jostled around a toddler chasing a sea gull, then hit the sand “sidewalk” in pursuit. In the blink of an eye, she went from running to flying to diving face first into the sand.
Blinding, white-hot pain shot through her ankle and up her leg. “Son of a fucking bitch!” She rolled onto her back, brought her knee to her chest, and wrapped her arms around her leg, gasping for air.
The pain was so intense, she couldn’t pinpoint where it originated, maybe the ankle. Despite the horrendous throbbing, her daughter was still scurrying down the beach, and somehow, someway, she had to get to her feet.
She pushed to her knees, preparing to go vertical, when Michy’s sweet voice rang out. “Mommy!” The concerned cry was the most beautiful sound she ever heard.
Thank you, Jesus.
She didn’t have to run anywhere. She didn’t even have to walk, because her baby bird returned. Sam flopped onto her back, squeezed her eyes closed to stop the sting, and bit down on her lip to squelch the quivering.
“This is going to hurt, but we have to get your shoe off. Your foot is already swelling.”
Her breath left in a whoosh and she forgot to take another as the deep… vaguely familiar voice registered. She cracked her eye open and, for the briefest moment, wondered if she’d died and gone to heaven where all the angels looked like Kevin Mazze.
He shoved his sunglasses onto the top of his head, giving her a good look at his red and watery eyes with dark half moons below and a two day-old shadow coloring his jaw. This was no angel, and wherever he’d been last night, he obviously had a devil of a time.
“I’m sorry,” he said, flinching as he unbuckled her sandal and slipped it off her foot.
Agony ripped through her leg, all the way to her stomach, erasing any fantasy she had of being dead or in the presence of angels. “Ooww… Son of a”—Sam glanced at her daughter—“beach! Sheet, that hurts.”
“Keep breathing. Take long… deep breaths.” His low tone and slow cadence compelled her to do as he said. “Good. Keep going. Deep breath in, slow exhale.”
After a few more Lamaze-type breaths, the pain morphed from a concentrated oh-holy-fuck-that-hurts into a body-wide throb.
“Spencer, come here.” Kevin reached into his back pocket for his wallet and pulled out a five.
Despite the nausea rolling northward and the burning desire to curl into a fetal position and cry for her mommy, Sam focused on Kevin Mazze’s face, then on Spencer… from afterschool… who had the same dark hair and compelling midnight eyes as Kevin.
She gasped. “Spencer’s yours?”
Kevin ignored her question and spoke to Spencer. “Give that to Miss Amy at the snow cone booth and tell her we need a baggie full of ice and one of her dish rags. I’m going to get Samantha up to the pavilion.”
Spencer ran off to parts unknown with Michy on his heels. Sam tried to sit up in protest, but Kevin pressed a hand to her shoulder and shook his head. “I can see the booth from here. They’re fine. Let’s get your foot elevated to minimize the swelling.”
He laid her sandal across her stomach, slid his arms under her back and knees, and scooped her up in one fluid motion. “That was a hell of a fall,” he said, while using his foot to push sand into the hole she’d fallen into. “Anything besides your ankle hurt?”
Sam was as overwhelmed and vulnerable as if she’d been parked naked in the middle of Main Street during the Labor Day parade. Her foot was on fire, but she’d survive the injury.
She may, however, die
When another massive wail failed to catch his attention, Michy scrambled down from her perch, dropped her hot dog and drink onto the bench, and took off. She vaulted over the concrete barricade like a professional hurdler and sprinted down the beach like an escaped convict.
“Shit.” Sam dropped her hot dog onto the paper wrapper, grabbed her bag, and bolted after her.
She jostled around a toddler chasing a sea gull, then hit the sand “sidewalk” in pursuit. In the blink of an eye, she went from running to flying to diving face first into the sand.
Blinding, white-hot pain shot through her ankle and up her leg. “Son of a fucking bitch!” She rolled onto her back, brought her knee to her chest, and wrapped her arms around her leg, gasping for air.
The pain was so intense, she couldn’t pinpoint where it originated, maybe the ankle. Despite the horrendous throbbing, her daughter was still scurrying down the beach, and somehow, someway, she had to get to her feet.
She pushed to her knees, preparing to go vertical, when Michy’s sweet voice rang out. “Mommy!” The concerned cry was the most beautiful sound she ever heard.
Thank you, Jesus.
She didn’t have to run anywhere. She didn’t even have to walk, because her baby bird returned. Sam flopped onto her back, squeezed her eyes closed to stop the sting, and bit down on her lip to squelch the quivering.
“This is going to hurt, but we have to get your shoe off. Your foot is already swelling.”
Her breath left in a whoosh and she forgot to take another as the deep… vaguely familiar voice registered. She cracked her eye open and, for the briefest moment, wondered if she’d died and gone to heaven where all the angels looked like Kevin Mazze.
He shoved his sunglasses onto the top of his head, giving her a good look at his red and watery eyes with dark half moons below and a two day-old shadow coloring his jaw. This was no angel, and wherever he’d been last night, he obviously had a devil of a time.
“I’m sorry,” he said, flinching as he unbuckled her sandal and slipped it off her foot.
Agony ripped through her leg, all the way to her stomach, erasing any fantasy she had of being dead or in the presence of angels. “Ooww… Son of a”—Sam glanced at her daughter—“beach! Sheet, that hurts.”
“Keep breathing. Take long… deep breaths.” His low tone and slow cadence compelled her to do as he said. “Good. Keep going. Deep breath in, slow exhale.”
After a few more Lamaze-type breaths, the pain morphed from a concentrated oh-holy-fuck-that-hurts into a body-wide throb.
“Spencer, come here.” Kevin reached into his back pocket for his wallet and pulled out a five.
Despite the nausea rolling northward and the burning desire to curl into a fetal position and cry for her mommy, Sam focused on Kevin Mazze’s face, then on Spencer… from afterschool… who had the same dark hair and compelling midnight eyes as Kevin.
She gasped. “Spencer’s yours?”
Kevin ignored her question and spoke to Spencer. “Give that to Miss Amy at the snow cone booth and tell her we need a baggie full of ice and one of her dish rags. I’m going to get Samantha up to the pavilion.”
Spencer ran off to parts unknown with Michy on his heels. Sam tried to sit up in protest, but Kevin pressed a hand to her shoulder and shook his head. “I can see the booth from here. They’re fine. Let’s get your foot elevated to minimize the swelling.”
He laid her sandal across her stomach, slid his arms under her back and knees, and scooped her up in one fluid motion. “That was a hell of a fall,” he said, while using his foot to push sand into the hole she’d fallen into. “Anything besides your ankle hurt?”
Sam was as overwhelmed and vulnerable as if she’d been parked naked in the middle of Main Street during the Labor Day parade. Her foot was on fire, but she’d survive the injury.
She may, however, die
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