Free Heart Murmurs by R. R. Smythe Page A

stare into at one another’s eyes. I chuckle. They aren’t going to hear a word I say.
    A mom with three kids — check. Homeschoolers?
    The two school-aged kids, a boy and girl, stare at the barn, infatuated with the horses.
    Toddler little brother. Uh-oh. He could be trouble. The mom grabs his wrist as he fidgets and wails and drops to the ground, where he hangs like a writhing little firecracker.
    I smooth my dress down and glance around the barnyard. Where is Morgan? And why is he constantly on my mind?
    I raise my voice over the toddler. “Are we ready to begin?”
    A chorus of enthusiastic ‘yeses’ reply.
    I speak into my megaphone, walking backward, avoiding the gopher-holes. “The farm is self-sustaining. Most of the food served in the restaurant is grown right here.” I gesture to what’s left of the crops.
    I turn toward the ancient, iron beast beside the barn. “In a few minutes we will have a cannon demonstration.”
    If Morgan ever decides to stop being a crytpic, he-loves-me, he-loves-me-not, moron and show up.
    â€œJimmy!” The mom’s shriek freezes my blood.
    The toddler breaks free of the group; his chubby legs working fast and furious as he darts across the field. Toward the stream.
    Oh, laws. The whispers ignite.
    The mom sprints after him, mud surreally splattering her flowered skirt. She trips on its folds. The little boy bolts faster, giggling.
    His brother and sister run after him. I turn, tearing across the grass.
    Thump-thump-thump-thump.
    Please, just let me run. Just this once. Please!
    Little cherub cheeks grinning. Tiny tennis shoes. The creek is small, but fast. Very fast. He will drown.
    The rush of the water amplifies, drowning out the mother’s screaming; the old ladies’ panic.
    The young girl stops, stooping to help her mother. “Go, forget me! Save him!” she wails.
    The boy and girl run faster. Too far. He’s too far. There’s no way.
    An electric shock of rushing adrenaline infuses my legs. For a few glorious seconds, I sprint.
    Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
    â€œNo!”
    I’m gasping. My legs collapse. Like a switch flicked off. The grass rises in slow-motion as my head collides with the ground.
    Hoofbeats. I hear their vibration, my ear pressed against the ground. I command my legs to stand and wobble upright, hobbling again toward the boy.
    Inside, the whispers scream.
    Morgan. On Beth’s white horse. “Ha!”
    He is on the other side of the creek, barreling toward the water.
    The white horse sprints forward and Morgan leans into him, their motions becoming one. His wide, wild eyes match the emotions ripping through my heart.
    The mother is wailing, running. Every step she takes distorts her cries; they’re ragged and clipped, like a mother goat’s bleats.
    The toddler looks over his shoulder, running full-tilt. He reaches the water.
    His tiny faces screws up in horror for a terrible second as his feet leave the bank.
    On the other side, hooves leave the ground; Morgan lurches sideways, fingers outstretched for the boy’s suspenders.
    He swipes but misses.
    Time surreally lengthens. The boy’s feet, trunk, and head slip beneath the water in slow motion. I hear the mother’s wail as if far away.
    Morgan slips off the saddle, splashing into the water, instantly diving into the rushing current. The horse lands on the other side, shaking his head.
    For a horrible moment, all is still.
    We all reach the bank, panting.
    The mother is dumbstruck; her mouth moves without issuing a sound.
    The older sister’s voice breaks. “Mommy?” Her daughter’s voice breaks her trance. The woman lurches forward, stumbling down the riverbank.
    A huge gasp and a splash erupt.
    Morgan breaks out of the water; a coughing and spluttering toddler clutching his neck.
    Morgan battles the current, cutting across the swift-moving water toward us. The boy coughs, vomiting up a gush of