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A LOOK INSIDE The air tastes different tonight as the sun drops and the wind begins to blow. Fresh, clean and unhampered, each breath carries itself without that sweet smell of burning garbage. Not far in the distance, four smokestacks stand lifeless in the softened sky. At last, a day without that billowing smoke. But at this moment, as a team of medics surround an 11-year-old boy lying unconscious on the boardwalk, air quality seems to be the least of all worries. Right here, right now, town residents are holding their breath. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to Stump City. Forty-five minutes ago, this small town had gathered in celebration. 8-year-old Bella Saskatoon, slender as a twig, had just won Stump City's first annual 100-yard-dash. The event on the boardwalk had begun unlike any other, with surprises coming in every shape and size. Old man Tooley showed off the very latest in his long line of dancing mules. Edmonton Sensei presented her new class of yellow belts before smashing her head, foot, and fist through three cinderblocks of cement. Complimentary snow-cones melted amid warm smiles as the ever-increasing horde of spectators observed what they assumed to be the curtain call to a perfect day - over 800 town residents sprinting from one side of the boardwalk to the other. It was an unforgettable sight. Pumping the trophy high into the air, Bella egged on cheers from an already deafening crowd. Surely, this was more than a moment to remember. The city was putting the world on notice. A freelance photographer rushed his money shot back to the office and an early printing of tomorrow's Chronicle was ordered underway. The greatest news story in Stump City's history was provided with a bold and defiant headline: "The Best Day Ever." If only the day had been over when this declaration was made. But now, the agitated editor pulls at his hair as he peers out the window of his riverside office. "Stop the presses!" he screams to anyone willing to listen. Right here, right now, the city is restless. Down by the river, under the giant oak tree in the middle of the boardwalk, townspeople cling to one another. They watch the tragedy unveil before their eyes. Sirens blare around them. A helicopter circles above them. A spotlight zigzags the cold, black water. What's happening? Lips move but thoughts are broken, unprocessed as if the frozen images still need time to defrost. For now, most stand in a large circle, shaking, weeping, and watching the young boy fight for his life. There on the boardwalk by the river, he lies motionless and unresponsive to the aid of the medics. They first cut his soaked shirt and then pump his chest, one listening for a heartbeat while another feels for a pulse. "Come on kid," whispers one medic, "breathe." The audience, growing nervous with quiet chatter, begins to show signs of collapse. A father pulls his curious toddler away from the excitement. An elderly woman screams that she can't take it anymore. She drops her head and covers her ears, failing to hear the words she so desperately craves. "We got a pulse." Twisting to the side, the boy coughs and throws up water. He gasps for air and opens his eyes in time to see the anxious crowd break out in cheers. He tries to sit up but the medics hold him down. They tell him to stay calm, to catch his breath. He looks around in a panic as they wrap him in a warm wool blanket. His mouth widens and begins to quiver - is he about to speak? The crowd falls silent so that the boy, Josh Graham, can be heard uttering his first surviving wish. "Don't kill him. Please don't kill him." Journalists pepper questions in Josh's direction. They want to know more and they want to know now, but the medic gently covers the boy's mouth, telling him not to talk because he needs to rest. A police officer steps in to calm the crowd. He assures everyone that they will hear the full story in due time, in the proper setting. "Move along," he says, "move along." The audience begins to disperse, unaware that it will take days for them to learn what really happened on this most dreadful night. Not until early next week, in the packed confines of the school's auditorium, will Josh Graham deliver a firsthand account of his near death experience. "His name is William Bidwell," he will begin by saying into the microphone. "I've been involved in a manhunt for five days, ever since I heard through the grapevine that a hobo had my dog'" No doubt bulbs will flash. Pens will scratch on paper. For now, though, all questions remain unanswered. The people of Stump City will return to their homes and, like the rest of the world, try to get on with their lives. But for them it will be hard, almost too much to ask, because finally, not far from the glowing eyes of the interstate, shielded by the pines of an unnamed hill, someone has given this "good-for-nothing" community the slightest hint of a beautiful day. ©2006 302 Publishing, Inc. |