Wishes and Stitches Read Online Free PDF Page A

left, she could hear the occasional car going down High Street and taking the turn where the coastline came back, curving in toward itself along Beach Road. Voices carried to her ears over the dunes, a child’s cry, a snippet of laughter.
    Turning around earlier than she usually did, she headed back toward the pier and caught the last orange flare from the sun being swallowed by the sea. An elderly couple, arm in arm, nodded to her as they crossed paths. Two small boys shrieked their way across the dunes and darted around the pier pilings. Even the terns moved two by two.
    But down there, just at the edge of the foam, stood one white heron. Alone. Proud. It looked content to be exactly where it was, and Naomi straightened her shoulders.
    This was a good place to be.
    When she reached the base of the pier, Naomi climbed the steps up to the street above, trying to make her legs feel long and heronlike.
    â€œWatch out!” a man yelled. She looked up to see Rig racing forward, his arms outstretched. “Milo!”
    A small child rode his bike directly into the path of an oncoming car.
    With a screech of brakes, the purple SUV lurched to a sudden stop, but not quite fast enough—it hit the child, sending him to the pavement with a thud.

Chapter Five
    It’s natural to feel a touch of fear when knitting lace.
    â€”E.C.
    T here was a moment of strange silence before the SUV’s door flew open and the child gathered the breath to cry, and then all hell broke loose. Naomi sprinted forward as Rig raced into the middle of the street. The driver tumbled out of the purple SUV and slammed the door on the cursive writing that spelled P HROSTING M OBILE. The owner of the local bakery, Whitney Court, wore a short, poofy black dress and ridiculously high heels. She put her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide.
    â€œDid I kill him?” Whitney asked. “Oh, God, did I kill him?”
    Naomi shook her head and brushed past her. “If he’s screaming, he’s breathing.”
    And he could certainly breathe—the kid was wailing bloody murder. Rig fell to his knees next to the boy. “Milo, are you hurt?” He moved his hands up the child’s arms, then down his legs.
    â€œNo, don’t touch him, don’t move him,” said Naomi. “You,” she said to Whitney, who still stood next to her car, apparently frozen in horror. “Call an ambulance. Okay, let’s check him out.”
    Rig barely glanced in her direction and then turned back to the boy. “Milo, buddy, I know you’re upset, but quit crying for a second. I need to ask you to show me how your body works.”
    Milo caught his breath between screams. He hiccupped, giving the man an interested look. “What . . . do . . . you . . . mean? My body?”
    â€œCan you wiggle your toes and move your feet?”
    â€œNo, keep him still,” said Naomi, leaning over the boy.
    Rig unsnapped Milo’s helmet. He took it off, running his hands over the boy’s head. “Milo, can you move your toes?”
    â€œYep . . . hic. ” Milo waggled them in his sandals.
    â€œAnd can you show me seven fingers, buddy?”
    Naomi held up her hand. “You need to stop. He could be injured internally. Please, we need to examine him without moving him.”
    â€œReally, I got it,” he said, but his voice sounded shaken. “Milo, seven? Can you show me?”
    The boy solemnly held up two fingers.
    â€œOh, God,” wailed Whitney, her cell phone in hand. “He hit his head, didn’t he? I broke him!”
    â€œThat’s two, buddy.”
    â€œI was trying to . . . hic . . . trick you, Uncle Rig.” Milo put up the other hand, showing five extra fingers. “That’s seven.”
    â€œHey,” started Naomi.
    â€œLet’s get everyone out of the street.” Rig stood and then reached down, picking Milo up under the arms. He held the