"This is the Gladlyville fire department calling."
Our 9yo was biking home from a friend's house this evening. He saw the turning pickup truck too late; he couldn't get stopped. He slammed hard into the back of the truck, hard enough to warp the wheel and flex the fork.
He had sped away from home with no helmet. Bareheaded, he slammed into that pickup truck.
He's fine. Thanks be, thanks be -- he's fine. He has a sore thumb. I know what to do for a sore thumb.
A neighbor saw the collision and called 911. They sent two police cars, two fire trucks and an ambulance. [Edited: two police cars, two fire dept. ambulances. It was a little confusing when he first came home.] My husband took the call. I knew something was wrong. "I'll be right there," he told them. "Joe's fine," he said to me when he hung up the phone, "but he was clipped by a pickup truck."
I held out my arms to Joe when he walked in the door and he stepped into them, brushing away tears. Thank God for guardian angels.
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