The Dreadful Balance

I walked Lake Hamilton's dreary shores in deep winter. Cheers echoed across the park as some neighborhood children waged another campaign in their months-long snowball fight. Pete’s Café did brisk business, with many cars parked outside, pinging in steely protest at the cold. A young homeless woman huddled beneath some cardboard. With an electric flick of my wrist, her shelter warmed to more habitable levels, and a nearby Ford’s windows crystallized in spectacular geometry. I smiled and continued down the frost-rhymed path. Closer to the battle now, squeals erupted as the children rained icy hell upon one another. A sharp crack rang out across the ice, and a small figure was swallowed by the lake. Shouting, I ran toward the distant scene, as others did the same. The bitter water cut into me, until, finally grasping a tiny hand, I was pulled onto solid ground by the growing crowd. Her lips a pale blue, I searched desperately for a pulse that wasn’t there. A frightful shaking overtook me, as searing heat poured from my palm into her small sodden form. Steam hissed angrily around us. When the humid air cleared, her cheeks held a gentle fire. She gasped, hugging me, her teary eyes held tight against the frigid air. Unease crept up my spine, as a deafening silence washed over us. The crowd lingered still, their frozen, lifeless eyes locked in horrified fascination. I retched at the terrible sight – a macabre monument to the dreadful balance I had struck.