Read Online The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out by Neta Jackson - Free Book Online

Denny’s good intentions for leaving me the car would have been for nothing.
    Rats. I forgot about parking. The Hickmans’ rented house was only about six blocks from us, squeezed between a couple of three-story apartment buildings. Cars lined the curbs bumper to bumper. I drove around the block, which took me out onto busy Clark Street, grinned as I passed Adele’s Hair and Nails, brightly lit with twinkling lights in the window, and was tempted by an empty parking meter. Nope. No way could I carry all those boxes in one load, and I wasn’t about to make two trips in this weather.
    I’d just about decided to double-park in front of the Hickman house, unload the boxes, and forget about hanging out with Florida tonight, when a car pulled out at the far end of their block and its taillights disappeared around the corner. A parking space! Thank You, Jesus!
    Well, why not? I was thankful.
    I backed carefully into the parking space,maybe six inches farther out from the curb than I should be, but who cared? Pulling up the collar of my winter jacket and slinging my purse over my shoulder, I picked up the largest set of boxes from the back of the minivan, locked the car, and started gingerly up the slippery sidewalk toward the Hickmans’. I’d send one of the kids out for the other boxes.
    Hearing muffled footsteps running behind me, I walked a bit faster. Wish I’d parked closer to the house—
    Without warning, my feet flew out from under me as someone jerked my purse off my shoulder with the full force of a run. I didn’t have time to think before I spun around and crashed to the icy sidewalk on my back, the boxes flying out of my hands. Pain shot up my leg, as if I’d been stabbed by a hot knife . . . my left leg! The one I’d broken in the accident . . . but the pain shot up from my ankle, which was twisted under my body.
    I let out a cry of pain—just as I saw two more figures headed straight for me. Terrified, I threw up my arms to protect my face . . . but the two figures, bundled up against the cold, simply parted as if I was a traffic island and kept running.
    They weren’t going to hurt me! I tried to get up, but the pain pushed me down. “Help! My ankle! . . . Somebody, help me!” Hot tears squeezed from my eyes. “Ohh,” I groaned. “My ankle . . . I can’t . . . ”
    Far down the block I heard someone yell, “Boomer! Whatchu doin’? Come on!”
    I twisted my head, trying to see. But pain and tears blurred my vision. I tried again to get up, but the pain was too great. No way was I going to walk on this ankle. Oh God, help me . . . help me . . .
    Again that voice, further away. “Boomer, you idiot! Get outta there! . . .We’re leavin’, man!” The voice faded.
    Cold seeped through my slacks. I started to shiver. I had to get out of here . . . my cell phone! I had my cell phone! Frantically I patted my jacket pockets . . . nothing. Oh no! Did I put it in my purse? . . . No. I distinctly remember putting it in my pocket, with my keys—
    A head crossed my vision. I couldn’t see a face—just a hooded jacket and knit cap pulled low, the face in shadow. But someone was bending over me.
    I flinched . . . then gasped, “Help me . . . please. I’m hurt. I need my cell phone. I . . . lost it when I fell. Do you see it?”
    The figure straightened. Had to be just a teenager. He looked about, and then bent down and picked up something . . . my phone! He flipped it open and punched the keys. I heard three beeps, then a Send tone. Three beeps? “What—?”
    But before I could ask who he was calling, the person set the phone down on the ground about six inches from my fingers . . . and ran.

7

    F or half a second, I forgot the pain in my ankle. What in the world—?
    Then I heard a faraway voice. “9-1-1 operator. F What”—I snatched the phone off the ground and put it to my