Then, she turned, ran up the hill into his yard.  Tiffany and I sat there and watched.  Missy had on her white Reebok pump-ups, scuffed and a bit worn; they were her favorites.  Upon tagging the mat, she turned to run back, her left sole slipping on a patch of black ice.  She fell forward, face hitting first.  Split her chin wide open, an inch long gash.  Blood began flowing immediately onto the limestone steps.  Quiet, then Missy crying, partially at the sight of her own blood, partially at being stranded for too long on Lucas’ porch, it was as if he’d reached out and tripped her himself.  She screamed.  We just stared on in awe.

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