“So what do I do?” I ask quietly.
“For now? You don’t jump into the middle of the lake yet. We walk around the edge.”
She offers a small, reassuring smile. “Can you tell me about one of those dreams?”
I almost shut the conversation down completely. But I don’t say no.
There’s something about her that makes me feel safe.
So for the first time, I share...
The crowd was a blur of noise. My focus wasn’t on them. It was on the clipboard in front of me, on the plays scrawled across it in blue marker. Coach was talking fast, Bishop nodding beside me, and sweat ran down both our necks.
We were locked in. Fourth quarter. Tight game. The opposing team was on offense.
Somewhere behind us, the marching band blared. Parents shouted. Cheerleaders chanted—the usual noise. I didn’t even look up when the whistle blew.
Until I heard it, that sharp gasp that cut through everything.
The kind of sound that made your chest seize.
I looked up.
Maddison bolted past us, a blur of white and red, ponytail whipping behind her, cutting straight across the field.
Then I saw it. A toddler, maybe three years old, had wandered out from the sideline, right onto the field. Helmeted players were sprinting straight toward him, unseeing, their focus completely on the play. Nobody moved.
Not the refs. Not the coaches.
Not me.
She reached the kid seconds before the players collided, diving low, wrapping him in her arms, taking the hit herself.
The stadium fell silent.
For a full breath, it was like time forgot to move.
When I reached her, she was cradling the crying boy in her arms, whispering, “You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re okay.”
Her face was pale. She tried to stand, and her ankle gave out. She winced, the pain flashing across her face before she hid it behind a brave smile.
“Don’t move,” I said, crouching beside her. My heart still hammered. “You’re hurt.”
She shook her head, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes.
And then she looked at me. And she said, “Why weren’t you there?”
I tried to answer, but the field was empty now. No crowd. No players. No band. Just us.
She said it again. Louder. “Why didn’t you save him?”
I looked down, and the kid was gone.
“Why didn’t you save her?” She kept saying it. Over and over.
And then I wake up.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been talking.
