“By everything, do you mean not watching your stuff while you were saving the dog I was supposed to be taking care of?”
He headed for the side streets and alleys that surrounded Citygarden on the north side of Tucker Boulevard. With any luck, they’d find her case or backpack tossed on the ground or in a Dumpster.
“I didn’t ask you to watch my things. The park seemed empty. I figured it was safe, and I was focused on Millie.”
He shook his head and turned down the first narrow street two blocks north of the park. “It seemed empty, didn’t it? Do you want to describe your stuff so we both know what we’re looking for?”
“I had an aqua-colored backpack. The suitcase is a hard-shell spinner. It was rose pink, a gift. They weren’t exactly color-coordinated. But you know what they say: you start from where you are, right?”
Memory rushed over Mason. You start from where you are. He’d heard that line once before and never forgot it. Twice in his twenty-nine years, he’d felt so on top of his game that he’d almost believed nothing could bring him down. Twice he’d been wrong.
He’d been proven wrong just four weeks ago. The Red Birds had made it to the playoffs and he’d had a phenomenal second season with them. Then his buddy had been in town and what had seemed like a well-deserved night of partying had led to him piling into the back of an Explorer that, less than a mile after entering the highway, had flipped twice and careered across the highway, severely injuring his best friend and breaking Mason’s nose and collarbone and preventing his participation in his first-ever playoff season. Three other people had been in the SUV. Two had been injured worse than him.
The other time he’d been knocked down, he’d had a much harder time getting back up. He’d just finished his junior year of college and had gotten word that he was being considered for that year’s MLB draft. He’d gone home to his family’s farm in Iowa thinking he was infallible. Then, one fateful talk with his dad had left him angry and rebellious. That afternoon, he’d lingered outside too long when the game of catch he’d been playing with his cousin was cut short by a thunderstorm heading their way.
Mason had stood in the field too long watching the clouds race in, trying to lose the leftover fear lingering in him from his conversation with his dad to the power of the storm. He still remembered feeling the electricity that had been building in the air, causing the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck to stand on end and thinking what an unstoppable force nature could be.
That was the last thing he remembered. He woke up five days later to learn he’d been struck by lightning and that he owed his life to the CPR his cousin had given him until the ambulance arrived. The strike had blown out his left eardrum and caused a 60 percent loss of the hearing in one ear. He had also barely been able to move the left side of his body. His arm had been worse than his leg. Not only was moving it excruciating—it was nearly impossible. And no one would say for sure how much, if any, movement would return or if, like the hearing he’d lost, it was gone forever. There was the fatigue, disorientation, headaches, and irritability he’d had to deal with too.
What had terrified Mason the most was the partial paralysis of his left side. He’d wanted to be a pro ball player ever since he could remember, and the dream had been so close, he’d almost been able to touch it.
He’d acted like a caged bear those first several sessions of physical therapy, lashing out at a string of therapists who wouldn’t give him the answers he wanted. He’d finally been passed along to a bad-tempered woman on the verge of retiring who wouldn’t take his shit.
“You want to play ball tomorrow, then move that arm like I say today. You were handed a plate of crap, and now you can quit or you can work your ass off and set your mind to getting your body back under your control. It’s the best choice anyone’s ever given, isn’t it? Starting right from where you are.”
Mason did as the woman instructed and the path to full recovery was long—several years long—and chock-full of bumps and ruts and washouts. By twenty-five, he was starting to play close to as good as when he’d been struck at twenty-one. The Orioles picked him up for his first season when he was twenty-six. He’d been a mediocre player for them and a slightly better one for the Brewers before getting transferred to the Red Birds two years ago.
What kind of coincidence was it that he was hearing those words again now, after he’d had another brush with the chaos and uncertainty that had the potential to derail a career in a mere fraction of a second? And after a season of riding high, at the top of his game, and feeling like he again had the world at his feet. His friend Georges’s answer to that was that his unconscious was sending him a message, a loud, clear one that he needed to figure out, and figure out quickly.
Now, here was this girl, not recognizing him from anywhere, but reminding him so strongly of the connection of life. What message had he not gotten back then? What message was he not getting now?
You start from where you are.
“So, were you heading out of town or are you just getting back?” he asked, wanting to stop his racing thoughts.
She squinched her brows, then her face relaxed in understanding. “That’s a good question, considering what we’re on the hunt for. Neither, really. I got back from Europe about a month ago, and I’m staying put in St. Louis
