Luke didn’t wait for me to speak. He took off like a shot, following her across the overgrown lot next to my house. I grabbed my old flashlight and hobbled after them, knees screaming, breath short.
The ditch behind the abandoned silo was deep from last week’s storm—eight, maybe ten feet—lined with brambles and concrete chunks from God knows when.
I saw Luke already climbing down, his back hunched. He disappeared into the shadowed gulley. The girl stood beside me, sobbing.
“He was chasing our dog,” she said. “The dog got out—we weren’t supposed to be out, but Mama was sleeping, and I—”
I put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, sweetheart. We’ll get him.”
Luke shouted from below.
“I got him! He’s breathing but his leg looks bad—call someone!”
I handed the girl my phone. “Here. 911. You tell them what happened. Just like you told me.”
Her fingers were trembling, but she did it. Clear. Brave.
Within ten minutes, the whine of a siren echoed over the fields. First responders came, then neighbors, then someone from Channel 2 News who must’ve been listening to the scanner.
The girl’s mother arrived barefoot, mascara streaked down her cheeks, thanking us between sobs.
The boy was taken to the hospital—broken leg, mild concussion. Could’ve been worse, they said. Could’ve been so much worse.
When they finally drove off, the sky had gone soft with sunset.
Luke stood next to me, breathing hard.
“I didn’t even think,” he said.
“You didn’t need to,” I said. “You just knew.”
He looked down at his mud-covered shoes.
“She called our house,” he said, almost to himself.
The next day, the doorbell rang again. This time, it was quiet.
A woman stood there holding a casserole dish wrapped in foil. The girl from yesterday stood behind her, clutching a folded paper.
“She drew this for you,” the mother said, eyes full. “She said you’re like the grandma in books. The kind that saves people.”
I almost laughed. I hadn’t saved anyone. Luke had.
But I took the dish and the drawing, and I nodded.
“You’re welcome to join us for supper,” I said, not knowing if it was too much.
But she smiled.
“I’d like that.”
That night, there were four of us at the table.
The casserole was tuna noodle with crushed potato chips on top, just like Mama used to make. The little girl sat beside me, her hair now brushed, her hands clean. Luke offered her the good spoon for the green beans. I watched the way he passed things now—slower, more thoughtful.
When we bowed our heads before eating, no one said anything. But I felt something pass across the table. Like warmth. Like memory.
Like grace.
