Tilting at Windmills by Joseph Pittman Page A

ring.”
    He was very confused. Join the club.
    “I can’t explain it,” I said, and that much was the truth. “Something is telling me to keep it.”
    He smiled, showing his teeth. “Hope?”
    I shook my head. “More of a talisman. For my journey.”
    “Eh?”
    “It’s okay—I don’t especially get it either. But someday, maybe I will, and someday, perhaps I’ll return and we can do business.” I picked up the ring box and quickly pocketed it. “Thanks.”
    “Life, my boy,” the old man wisely said. “Always we must tilt at windmills. But they turn, and they turn, and you live. Remember.”
    I left the jewelry store, my wallet empty but my heart somehow richer, and it was that exact feeling that took me through the crowded streets of New York City, through the Lincoln Tunnel, into New Jersey, and onto an empty road that held nothing but hope and, somewhere, someplace, my future.

    F IRST I NTERLUDE
    B rian slept little that first night, and by nine o’clock in the morning, he was back at the hospital. Annie lay in the slightly arched bed, silent and still in the sleep of the wounded. Her vital signs had stabilized, that was good, and the color had returned to her cheeks. That instilled within him hope that she would wake sometime soon. Perhaps today.
    He’d left the farmhouse that morning under a cloud of controversy, Janey insisting she was going with him. She simply wanted to see her mother, that was all. Cynthia and Brian had exchanged worried looks, confused about what was best for Janey, and in the end had found themselves agreeing: It was too soon. Let Annie wake, let her be able to talk to her girl, assure her she was on the mend. Janey, wise beyond her years, had relented—for now, she said—freeing Brian to leave without guilt.
    Except he wasn’t guiltless. Sure, maybe when it came to Janey, but Annie, that was an altogether different story. Was it his stubbornness, or hers, or just the fates or the hand of God or a freak accident? He could debate this for all eternity and probably not come up with a satisfactory answer. Perhaps, for now, it was best to let go of blame and concentrate on what was. His healing could wait; Annie’s could not.
    He was back at his post, beside her bed, watching her sleep. She wasn’t breathing, not on her own, and maybe wouldn’t for a while. As a result of the accident, Annie had punctured a lung. The surgery had staved off further damage, but they had to wait for a positive sign of recovery. The other bruises were more obvious, especially this next day, purples and reds that stood pronounced on her forehead and cheeks and on her hands. Still, there was something about her, a glow of life, and that gave him—yes, he couldn’t think it enough, not in this crucial period of recovery—hope.
    “Janey sends her love,” Brian said. “Actually, she wanted to bring it herself, wrapped in a tight bow, no doubt, and sparkling with glitter.” Maybe he was wrong in not bringing Janey to her mother’s side. The hospital staff, though, had their own rules, and if Janey had to follow Brian’s, Brian had to follow the hospital’s. Loving people and wanting the best for them was never easy but always worth it.
    “I was thinking, Annie, of the first time we met. First time I met Janey, too. Could it really have been only six months ago? Seems like I’ve known you forever and Janey since she was a baby. She’s grown so much, even from that first moment we met—you remember, by the windmill.”
    Just then a beeping filled the room, startling Brian. Fear struck his heart as he realized the machine at Annie’s side was blaring and he didn’t know what it meant. He knew it didn’t signal anything good. He was about to call for a nurse when the door to the room burst open and a team of nurses entered, one rushing to Annie’s side, another to the machine, while the third ushered Brian outside, ignoring his protests and questions. In a blur, a handful of white-coated