And then it hit her. She felt her body propelled violently forward, her arms instinctively outstretched, bruising along with her knees as she slammed against the hard pavement, her forehead and nose bumping and scraping against the rubble and slivers of glass. For a moment, she didn’t even try to move, afraid of becoming aware of some tragic, irreversible damage. She simply closed her eyes, assessing her pain. But then she heard the voices. She looked up. Dozens of strangers surrounded her, peering at her, shocked and concerned. A young mother, horrified, moved toward her wanting to help. But a chorus of voices stopped her.

“Don’t move her, don’t move her!”

“I’m calling Hatzalah!” a man with a cell phone declared.

“He rode right into her!” the young woman insisted, clutching her baby closer. “It was no accident. It was clear like the day. He did it dafka. Slammed right into her!”

Leah’s head throbbed, trying to make sense of all this information, to put it together, but it was impossible. She was too tired. All she wanted was to sleep.

Then she heard Chasya’s terrified voice. “Mommy!”

She opened her eyes, trying to lift herself up off the ground, to turn over, but it was impossible. Everything hurt. Kind hands patted her down, urging her to lie still, informing her that medical help was on the way. Someone else handed her back her purse, and still another offered her baby wipes to clean her hands and face.

She lifted her head slightly, looking toward Chasya. The child was terrified, crying. Leah motioned toward her teacher to bring her, and her teacher picked her up, carrying her to Leah and setting her down.

Chasya looked down, hysterical. Leah reached up to touch her face. “Don’t cry. You know sometimes when you are playing and you fall down you get a few boo-boos? That’s what happened to Mommy. That’s all. I’m going to be fine.”

“But the bad man on the bicycle … He’s a rosha.”

“I’m sure it was an accident. Maybe he forgot how to ride? Next time, he’s going to break his own head.”

She saw the child suddenly stop crying. “Maybe his head will crack open like a big egg,” Chasya said with a cautious smile.

Leah reached for her hand, kissing it. “Your teacher is going to call Bubbee to pick you and Mordechai Shalom up,” she told the child, nodding at her teacher, who nodded back.

“Please don’t worry, Rebbitzen Lehman. We’ll take care of it. Can I do something else for you?”

But an ambulance was already pulling up to the curb, the EMTs jumping out and hurrying toward her.

“You go with your teacher now, Chasya. Mommy will be fine. The doctors will put a Band-Aid on my boo-boos.”