Scarsdale, New York
As through the lens of
a camera, she saw him at the edge of the driveway, his basket laden
with newspapers. He stopped to resettle them. Then, satisfied, he
stepped on the pedal of his bike and pushed off into the road. A red
sports car rounded the corner, careering down the empty street. Lottie
tried to scream a warning, but her throat constricted. The horrifying
squeal of brakes shattered the silence.
The car skidded crazily, like a slow motion movie, finally slamming into
the bicycle with a sickening thud. She watched, numb with fright, as
the impact catapulted the boy's small body into the air. He floated down
like feathers carried on a breeze, coming to rest on the hard pavement.
His mangled bike lay on the ground, a gotesque sculpture of metal and
rubber. A crowd of onlookers appeared from nowhere, gawking at the body.
It had faded then like the dream that it was. Lottie shook her head and
thrust it from her mind, willing away the fact she'd seen it and the
possibility that the scene would come true