Page 5 of Just Ten Seconds

“Absolutely,” she states quickly despite her look of surprise.

I rise from my crouched position, and the man, with Amanda still in his arms, stands. His six-foot-tall frame is like a statue of strength, as he doesn’t waver from holding on to his child.

Nick is over at the booths, holding a bin and clearing plates, as Jackie serves the table next to him. Her forehead creases with intrigue as I hold the door open for the man and his daughter.

The rain is now pouring down. We pause for a moment underneath the maroon awning of the Harvest Café.

Amanda’s pink bike with rainbow tassels is lying on the ground. A large black one is beside it. I take the bikes, rest them up against the building, and jog back under the awning.

“Don’t worry. No one will take them,” I say. Then, I point toward my sedan sitting on Main Street. “I’m over here. I don’t have an umbrella—”

“It’s okay. We can get wet,” he says.

If Amanda is getting heavy in his arms, he’s not showing it. While I jog to the car, he walks in swift yet steady glides.

I open the door and help them into the back seat.

Jogging around to the front, I get in the driver’s side and shake out my wet hair. My ponytail is plastered to my head, the droplets streaming down my forehead.

I look through the rearview mirror. The man’s hair is wet, dark curls forming at the ends. That’s all I can see, as his head is down and pressed against the top of Amanda’s.

When I turn the car on, my radio blares with the soundtrack to the Broadway show Dear Evan Hansen. I quickly turn it down as I pull away from the curb and drive.

This must be what it feels like to be a taxi driver. I don’t know my passengers, yet I’m driving them to their destination in silence. As I wait at a red light, I drum my fingers on the steering wheel and look through the rearview mirror again. This time, those steely-blue eyes are looking at me.

A shiver runs up my spine. My wet T-shirt is stuck to my skin, so I put the heat on, averting my attention back to the road, and grip the steering wheel.

We’re at the urgent care in minutes. He’s out of the car with Amanda still in his arms by the time I’m at their side. I hold the door to the building open for them and am about to leave as I hear the nurse tell him to sign in.

Since his hands are full, I let the door close behind me and walk up to the front desk to write Amanda’s name on the sign-in sheet. The nurse looks like she’s about to turn around and go God knows where, so I call her back with a sense of urgency.

“She’s in an incredible amount of pain,” I tell the nurse. “We think she broke her arm, so if you can rush her in, it’d be greatly appreciated.”

She takes one look at Amanda’s state and the red blotches of her crying face. Her eyes widen at the way she’s holding on to her arm. She rises and walks around to open the door that separates the waiting area to the exam rooms.

“Bring her right on in. I know a broken bone when I see one, honey,” the nurse says, motioning for him to come through the doorway. “Mom, you can start on the paperwork while Dad gets the munchkin comfortable.”

“I’m not her—”

The man clears his throat. “Take my wallet.”

There’s a pause as he shifts his hip, gesturing for me to take his wallet that’s bulging out of his front pocket.

Okay. This is awkward.

“You want me to …” I start to ask for confirmation but think twice. “Never mind.”

With the precision of the game of Operation, I stick my fingers into the pocket of his jeans and pinch the top of his wallet. It’s pretty thick, so it won’t budge. I have to slide my entire palm into his pocket, the backs of my fingertips rubbing up against the firm muscle of his thigh, and glide the wallet out.

No sooner do I have it in my hand than he is through the door, and it closes behind him, swinging like a pendulum in his wake.

I’m left alone in the waiting room with soft elevator music playing over a loudspeaker and walls decorated with a wraparound mural of a princess in a tower and a prince fighting a dragon at the foot of it. I stand here, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do now and listening to the opening chords of a Barbra Streisand song that, no doubt, no child who has ever stepped foot in here would know.

I glance at the wallet and snap out of my daze.

There’s a clipboard on the counter with a pen attached by a metal chain. The papers on top are standard new patient and insurance forms.

The brown distressed-leather wallet weighs heavily in my hand. I feel imposing, going through it. Perhaps I should wait for him to come out? No, he gave me his wallet. He expects me to open it. Why am I even questioning this right now?