Free His Frozen Heart by Nancy Straight

needed
to see Libby. I slung my backpack over my back and reached for the
dish. Somehow my hand didn’t work right, and the dish crashed to
the floor, spewing bits of marinara sauce all over everything. When
I kneeled down to pick it up, one of the sharp pieces of glass
sliced the palm of my hand.
    It was surreal – the red from the
marinara sauce clinging to surfaces as it had splattered the floor,
while the fresh blood dripped down my wrist. Mr. Sanders grabbed a
t-shirt off of a rack and wrapped it around my hand, took my elbow
in his hand, and guided me to my feet. “Marjorie will clean it up.
Let’s get you to a doctor.”
    I didn’t argue. He held my coat for me
as I slid my good hand through the armhole and let it hang loosely
over the shoulder of my bleeding hand. Mr. Sanders carried my book
bag for me and guided me toward his car.

Chapter 6
     
    The cut from the casserole dish hadn’t
been deep. We had only driven two blocks when I pulled the t-shirt
off of my hand and saw the bleeding had slowed. Mr. Sanders had
insisted on driving, and as much as I hated leaving my car at the
gas station, I couldn’t drive it. The bullet hole had been placed
directly where my face would be while I was driving, and the glare
from headlights in all the cracks would have blinded me if I had
tried to operate it. The shots in my safety cage had been
well-placed, and I wouldn’t ignore the message of the one in my
windshield. The shooter was sending me a message, and I received
it.
    We pulled up in front of the
hospital’s emergency entrance where the ambulances parked. I didn’t
feel like this was any kind of an emergency, so I pointed to the
garage across the street. “Let’s leave this spot for someone who’s
missing a limb, okay?”
    Mr. Sanders furrowed his brow at me,
as if to disagree, but must have decided he would be wasting his
time. Instead, he did as I asked, and parked in the adjacent
garage. As we got out of the car, the below zero temperature took
my breath away as I pulled my coat tight around my chest. Mr.
Sanders shoved his hands into his thick downy coat, tucked his head
down and ushered me toward the entrance to the skywalk for the
hospital. Once we were sheltered from the wind and cold in the
skywalk between the two structures, he awkwardly said, “You may not
feel too bad now, but I think that’s just because it hasn’t sunk in
yet. I want you to take a week off.”
    I couldn’t afford to take a week off.
If he knew how broke I was, he wouldn’t have even suggested it. My
monetary situation was what got me into this mess to begin with: we
would have never gone to Bank Shot tonight if we hadn’t needed
money for food. If he knew how strapped I was, he’d probably let me
cover some of the other workers’ shifts. “I’m fine, Mr. Sanders. My
hand’s okay. I just want to check on my roommate. I’ll be back to
work tomorrow night.”
    Compassionately he offered, “Sometimes
the stress of something like this isn’t immediate. I’m taking you
off the schedule until next Tuesday. If you need more time, call me
and let me know.”
    We were midway through the glass
enclosed skywalk between the parking garage and the hospital when I
stopped him. I didn’t want to sound like I was ungrateful, but with
Libby banged up, I was somehow going to have to come up with her
share of the rent. My hand was still wrapped in the t-shirt he had
given me, and I allowed myself to concentrate on it when my small
voice confessed, “I can’t afford to be off work that
long.”
    He stepped into me and hugged me hard
to his chest, much the same as he had done at the gas station when
I broke down – the same way Dad used to hold me whenever I needed
it. Mom and Dad moved to New Mexico a couple years ago, so neither
were going to hold me and tell me everything would be fine. Mr.
Sanders was old enough to be my father, and I worried I might fall
apart all over again in his embrace. He lifted my chin so I was
forced to