Scooping up one-year-old Jason, I grabbed my keys from the counter and called to five-year-old Robert: “Time to go!” We were running late for a doctor’s appointment.
The Texas summer heat beat down on us when we stepped outside. Robert kicked off his shoes and made footprints in the sandy driveway all the way to the car.
“Mommy will crank up the A.C., guys,” I promised, buckling Jason into his car seat. I locked and slammed his door and reached for the handle on the passenger side so Robert could hop in. Now where did I put those keys? My eyes darted back to Jason, who was waving my keys in his hand.
In a panic, I tried all the doors. The car was locked tight. Little Jason wouldn’t last more than a few minutes in that heat. I had to get him out! I grabbed a hoe from the garage. “Move back, Robert!” I shouted.
I swung at the rear window, but the hoe glanced off the shatterproof glass. Jason started to cry, his face red. “Oh, God, please help us!” I called.
“Mom, look,” Robert said. A young man in blue jeans stood behind me in the driveway. He took the hoe, broke a side window with a single blow, reached in and unlocked Jason’s door. I gathered him in my arms and pulled Robert close. “It’s okay, boys. We’re all okay.”
“Where did that man go?” Robert wanted to know. I looked around. The street was empty, and our sandy driveway showed only two sets of footprints—mine and Robert’s.
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