Small Blessings

Chapter 9

December 25, 2019

Dear Santa:

All I want for Christmas is a time machine.

Please, Santa.

Please.

Let me have a do-over.

I'll be good all the next year through.

If you let me start this night over, or even let me send a letter to my younger self...

...any age. Pick one. I'll go back to it.

Just let time travel be more real than this bullet wound in Dillon's neck.

I'll write the letter myself; you don't have to help me compose it. It won't be any trouble for you at all. I promise.

Age 23, 22 or even 13; any age will do.
Just let me warn us.

Let me know ahead of time what was lying in wait outside the bakers' door...

"Miss!"

"Miss!" I heard a frantic voice shout, trying to pull me out of my head, fearing I was slipping into shock.

Dillon was bleeding out in my lap after all, to say nothing of the blood dripping from my own shoulder, minor as my injury was in comparison.

On his fourth attempt to get me to focus, I turned to stare his way. "What did you say?" I asked coming out of a daze. I could hear Mrs. Ferrari crying against her husband's shoulder as he prayed a "Hail Mary" reverantly.

"I said," he explained calmly. "We need to get Mr. Grier into the ambulance. He needs to be taken to the hospital immediately if he has any chance of surviving. You've got to let him go."

This man wasn't taking Dillon out of my sight.

I might never see him again.

Who knows where the assassins were? They could be lying in wait, chomping at the bit to finish their dirty work.

"I'm going with you."

"No," the paramedic ordered, putting a hand up against the idea.

As if he could stop my going.

Oh, hell no.

"I'm going and there's nothing you can do to stop me coming alo-"

"Miss Givens," he admonished me, cutting off my protest rudely; his patience waining. "Only immediate family-"

This man wasn't the only one who knew how to end a sentiment, however, or bark orders.

"It's Mrs. Grier!" I hollered at him. "And he is my husband. I'm going."

The only thing giving me pause was Mrs. Ferrari's shocked gasp behind us.

When Mr. Ferrari made the sign of the cross for the second time tonight, I knew I'd have some explaining to do the next time we saw each other.

I only hoped they'd forgive my little white lie, to say nothing of traumatizing them on Christmas day.

Defected Servizio Informazioni Militare agents, I figured they'd understand. For now, though, I had to go.

I had to make sure Dillon was alright.

He still had a lot of explaining to do.