I opened my eyes, saw that the little girl was almost in front of the library, a greyhound was on a leash behind her, and Mr. Hayes was eating a doughnut across the street.

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

She was going to be hit soon . . . no, she was going to be hit immediately by a white truck.

I dropped the books and Ghost. She squealed and hissed in outrage. I started running up the street, my white summer dress easy to run in, my red flip-flops not so easy.

“Hello, Evie,” my friend Gracie called out, but I didn’t greet her, I didn’t have time.

“Evie,” Mr. Jamon croaked, leaning on his cane as I flew past him. “Everything okay, dear? Did you see something?”

I kept running. The girl was two blocks ahead, and I had to catch up. I so hate running. It makes me breathless. Now and then I see people running or jogging, and I think, My, that looks miserable. And it is, it so is. I tried to breathe and heard a gurgling, choking sound in my throat as my legs started to burn.

The sun was streaming through the towering fir and pine trees, blinding the road up ahead, but I heard it, loud and clear: a delivery truck, rumbling and groaning, the type with huge loads so it can’t brake quickly. It turned the corner on top of the hill and barreled down the road toward town, the engine grinding.

I ran harder, faster, darting around Koo and Darrell Jones, who moved out of the way when they heard me panting behind them. I heard Koo say, “It’s happening again!” and Darrell yelled after me, “Can we help, Evie?” I heard them running after me.

I could hardly breathe. I need to get in shape, but what a drag that would be. Ugh.

The truck was flying down the street, way too fast, passing the post office, the old white church, the knitting store. I saw the little girl, her eye caught by a dog—a fluffy, white, cute dog across the street. She smiled at the dog, waved at it as if it would pick up a paw and wave back.

“No!” I shouted at her as loud as I could, my lungs burning. “No! Don’t move!” But she didn’t hear me and her mother was distracted, staring into the picture window of my mother and aunts’ pink store, Flowers, Lotions, and Potions. The store was filled with the wild, intricate bouquets that my mother makes, the scented potions and lotions my aunt Camellia makes, and the peculiar/sexy/oddly compelling flower photographs my aunt Iris takes.

“No! No!” I screamed again, puffing hard as the girl took that fateful, disastrous step and darted into the street to pet the fluffy, white, cute dog on the other side, her red ribbon flying about, a smile on her face before she was going to be turned into a human pancake.

I saw the truck driver’s expression, suddenly panicked as he saw her. He hit the brakes and they screeched, but the brakes couldn’t work fast enough.