She scampered up the hill, feet slapping up water bubbling down the gutter on a hot summer day. Toward the crest, the water blushed pink about her toes. She searched ahead for its source. A red pickup truck, hastily parked, blocked part of the street. A fireman washed the sidewalk down with a garden hose. Curious. She stood, cool pink water lapping over hot little feet. The white picket fence was broken. A pair of glasses hung in the tree. A single shoe lay in the lawn beyond the fence, a child’s sneaker. Blood stained the sidewalk. Blood stained the street. Blood stained the gutter. Blood stained her hot little feet.

            The fireman, intent upon his grim task, hadn’t seen her stomping and splashing in the gutter... until it wastoo late.

            “ Get outta there, missy!” The fireman barked when he noticed her, as if the water was tainted, or perhaps it was simply disrespectful to play in the water when it is pink.

            The little girl did as she was told and stepped onto the sidewalk. The fireman aimed the hose at her feet. She stood shivering from the cold burst of water in the sweltering heat. Finally, satisfied that no blood remained between her toes or in the cracks of her heels, the fireman retrained the hose on the street.

            “ Hey, Mister?” The fireman ignored her. Clearly he hoped she would go away.

            “ Hey, Mister!” She repeated, louder.

            The fireman turned and glared at her; the hose hung limply in his hand. “What!” It was more a demand than a question.

            The little girl plopped down on the soft grass in front of the gate.

            What are you doing?” She asked, her voice tiny, lilting.

            The fireman regarded her long and hard. What do you say to a child when you’re washing away the blood of another?

            “ Cleaning the street,” he said gruffly. Just as he returned to his task...

            “ Why?” She craned her neck, to see what he was cleaning.

            The fireman, drained, toll taken, wasn’t in the mood to deal with a child. He hadn’t been for many years, actually. Not since...

            “ There’s blood on the street,” he turned his back, dismissing the little girl, and placed his thumb over the opening of the hose to increase its velocity, and its volume.

            “ Hey Mister!” She yelled. He ignored her.

            “ HEY MISTER!” She yelled louder. He turned back around, exasperated. She was sitting Indian style, her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands.

Big blue eyes gazed earnestly from beneath pale bangs.

            “ Why is there blood on the street?”

            The fireman, uncomfortable, cleared his throat.

            “ There was an accident,” and seeing her mouth open to question further, he elaborated,

            “ A little girl, like you,” he said pointedly, “Was hit by a car. She was hurt very badly.” He gestured toward where the ambulance had been, “They took her to the hospital.” The fireman dropped the hose onto the asphalt and left to turn off the spigot. As he passed her he commanded, “Now go home.”

            Back at the truck, he dared a covert glimpse to see if she had obeyed. The little girl was standing in the grass in the shade of an elm tree in the yard, the yard behind the white picket fence. She caught his glance.

            “Hey mister.” she chimed, “Watch me.” The little girl spread her arms wide and tipped her head back. Smiling at the clouds, she spun. Her dress floated about her waist, its pink flowers blurred. The little girl twirled until dizzy, she staggered then tumbled into the thick cool grass. There she lay giggling, staring up through the branches of the tree. The fireman smiled in spite of himself.

            “Does your mommy know where you are?” he asked. She rolled over and sat up, pigtails askew.
            “ No,” she said cautiously.
            “ She will be worried,” he scolded, “when she finds you gone.”
            The little girl grew serious, “She is worried.”
            “ Why don’t you go home then?” The fireman asked.
            “ I am home.” she responded and lay back in the grass.
            “ What is your name?” The fireman asked.

            “ Allison,” she answered coyly. She rolled onto her stomach and watched him through the slats of the fence.

            The fireman began to roll up the hose, following it to its source by the spigot on the house behind the white picket fence. He had arrived at the scene late. As frantic paramedics rushed the child past her dazed and bloodied father and loaded her into an ambulance next to her hysterical mother. The ambulance then sped off, sirens wailing and lights flashing. All that had remained was the mess.

            On his way back to the truck, he stopped to pick up the lonely shoe in the middle of the yard. “Oh,” the little girl chirped, “that’s my shoe.” The fireman inspected it, a small pink sneaker, about her size. He tossed it to her.

            “Sorry,” he hesitated. He had been sure it was the child’s shoe, the one in the ambulance. He thought he had seen its mate... on her foot.

            Perhaps he had been mistaken. They had whisked the child away so fast. He hadn’t really seen her. He was grateful for that.

            He proceeded on to the tree in front of the fence. The tiny pair of glasses dangled from a low branch. He reached up to retrieve them,
            “ Those are mine,” the little girl announced.

            Suspicious, the fireman regarded her incredulously. “How then, did they get into the tree?”

            The little girl shrugged, “I don’t know.” She jumped up and skipped over to where the fireman stood holding the small plastic frames.

            “ It’s okay, mister,” she smiled, “I don’t need them anymore, anyhow. See,” she opened her eyes wide and blinked as proof.

            The fireman regarded her skeptically, handed them to her then shook his head. He wandered over to the cab of the truck, and came back to the curb with a soda. Removing his heavy fireman’s hat and coat he sank hot and exhausted to the damp sidewalk. The fireman pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his drenched brow. Allison sat down beside him.

            “ Mister?”
            “ Yep,” he responded
            “ Do you have any kids?”
            He never knew exactly how to answer that question. He does? He doesn’t? He did, but he doesn’t now?
            “ I do.” he stuttered. “That is, I did,” then frustrated, “Ah, hell,” he swore under his breath, “I do.”
            Allison stared, puzzled. She cocked her head as if it might make better sense, if she heard it from a different angle.
             “ I had a daughter,” he clarified, “but she died.” He stared vacantly down the street, “many years ago.”
            Allison sat, quietly thinking, “Mister?”
            “ Yep?

            “Was she little? Like me?”
            The fireman smiled, “She was a little bit bigger than you.” His face grew sad, “But not much.”
            Again they sat silently for a moment.
            “ Mister?”
            “ Yep,” he responded.
            “ Why did she die?”
            The fireman fell mute, collecting himself. Finally he answered, “She got sick.” His voice trembled slightly, even after all these years.

            Allison nodded her head pondering that.
            “ Did it hurt?” She asked finally.

            The fireman winced almost imperceptibly, “Yes. I believe it did.”

            “ Oh,” Allison responded.

            Allison and the fireman sat, each deep in their own thoughts.

            “ Did her mommy cry?” Allison asked, gravely.

            A memory flashed through the fireman’s mind. His wife. Beautiful. Happy once. Smiling. Crying until she could cry no more. Then never happy, never smiling, ever again.

            “ Yes. I believe she did,” he said at last.

            Allison patted his arm and looked somberly into his face.

            “ What was her name?”

            He smiled, but the pain etched lines across his forehead. “Gracie,” he responded. A beautiful name he thought, such a shame.

            The fireman heaved himself back up and set his soda on the tailgate of the truck. He couldn’t speak anymore. He wished the little girl would go away. He wished Gracie would come back.
       
            “ Mister?” Allison had risen and was walking, shoe in one hand and glasses in the other, toward the gate. “She’s okay now,” she watched him, knowlingly.

            The fireman couldn’t resist. Bitterly he spat, “How would you know?”

The little girl ignored him and turned toward the gate in the white picket fence. A wicked shard of glass glittered in the street. The fireman reached down plucked it off the pavement and angrily pitched it into the bed of the truck. He glanced back toward Allison,
            She was gone.
            The shoe and the glasses
            were neatly placed
            beside the white picket fence.