The Rhythm Of Rescue

005 | First fight

"Hey, Casey," Jean called, swiveling her chair closer as she leaned against the edge of my desk. We both worked in the same Data Management Department, our desks practically touching.

"Can I ask a favor?"

I glanced up from my screen, my fingers still tapping out SQL queries. "Sure," I said, trying to sound nonchalant. "What is it?"

Jean's eyes softened, and she leaned in closer. "My daughter's school called," she whispered, "She's got this nasty cold, and the teacher says she's not very active in class today. They want me to pick her up from the sick bay, but I'm knee-deep in ETL pipelines, and Dupont's breathing down my neck for that report. Can you pick her up for me?"

I hesitated.

Jean and I weren't exactly friends, but she had that desperate look-the kind that made you feel like a jerk if you said no. Besides, I'd probably been her last hope. She'd likely canvassed the entire office only to be turned down due to their own workload and busy schedules.

"Yeah, sure," I said, pushing my chair back. "Why not?" My weekly dashboard was finally polished again. Picking up a sick kid seemed like a welcome diversion besides boring work stuff.

Jean's relief was palpable. She swiveled her chair toward her desk, rummaging through her bag. She pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. "Here's my authorization," she said, scribbling something with a pen. "You're Casey Carlton, right?"

"Castleman."

"Right. Right." She scratched out a word, her pen dancing across the paper. "Thanks, Casey. You're a lifesaver."

"Her name is Ymani Berry James," she continued, her pen scratching across the paper as she finished the authorization note. "She's at Vista Academy on Linwood Street. It's thirty minutes from here." Then she spun her chair back to her desk, rummaging through the contents of her bag.

Returning with a photo clutched in her hand, she presented it to me. "This is her."

I nodded, my gaze lingering on the snapshot. Ymani's green eyes sparkled, framed by a constellation of freckles that danced across her cheeks, nose, and over to the other cheek.

"Thank you," Jean said, her voice softening. "I really appreciate this."

"No problem," I replied, tucking the note into my pocket as I headed out.

***
EXACTLY 40 MINUTES LATER

"How are you feeling now?" I asked Ymani as she hopped along the sidewalk, her wavy brown hair bouncing as she did.

She turned to me, her big beautiful eyes wide and serious. "Like shit."

I caught up with her and grasped her small hands in mine, her school bag slung on my shoulder.

Her mittens scratched against my hand as she tried to free herself. I held on, determined to keep her from darting off again.

We crossed the street. "How old are you?" I quizzed.

"Eight. Why?"

"Eight-year-olds shouldn't say things like that."

"Things like 'shit' and 'crap'?" She scoffed. "Oh, please! There are bigger problems out there, like wars and pollution and you're worried about 𝘮𝘺 choice of words? Grown-ups say them all the time-on the news, in that cartoon show my mom lets me watch. I'm just repeating what I hear."

"So you know they're not good words."

"Yeah." Ymani nodded innocently. "Mom and Dad warn me not to say them, but they use those words with each other all the time!"