The wheelbarrow.
The walk.
The emergency room.
The key.
By the time she finished, the mother’s hand covered her mouth.
“You pushed them here?”
The girl nodded.
Then came the fear she had apparently carried since the ambulance arrived.
“Are you mad?”
Her mother immediately shook her head.
“No.”
“I left the house.”
“I know.”
“You said I wasn’t supposed to.”
Her mother’s expression tightened.
Sometimes a rule that once made perfect sense becomes useless in the face of something larger.
She reached for her daughter’s hand.
“You were supposed to get help if you were in danger.”
The girl studied her.
“We were?”
“Yes.”
“All of us?”
“All of you.”
The answer seemed to settle something the child hadn’t known how to ask.
Then she touched the key hanging against her sweatshirt.
