Page 56 of A Million To Fall

But I’m already running. Well, running-ish.

It’s more like a deranged hop-sprint while dragging one tied leg and carrying an almost-nine-year-old who’s shrieking like she’s on a roller coaster.

“Faster, Skye. We’re winning!” Cassie screams.

“We’re absolutely winning!”

I risk a glance behind me just in time to see Boston double over laughing so hard he almost takes Bronx down with him.

Bronx looks personally betrayed.

“Boss!” he yells, trying to yank his much bigger brother onward. “Run!”

“I can’t,” Boston chokes out between laughs.

I revel in the sight of it, the tears streaming down his face, his hand pressed to his stomach. It’s glorious.

Cassie and I stumble across the finish line first, collapsing into a heap of tangled limbs and laughter while the kids shout around us.

“She cheated!”

“That doesn’t count!”

“It totally counts!”

Cassie points dramatically at Bronx. “Losers!”

Bronx throws his hands in the air. “This is so rigged!”

Boston finally makes it across the line a few seconds later, still grinning as he tries—and fails—to catch his breath.

“You,” he says, pointing at me with an attempt at accusation in his voice, “are banned from all future athletic competitions at Riverfront.”

I press a hand to my chest and bat my eyes at him. “Oh no, Boss, whatever will I do without another three-legged race in my life?”

His laugh is as disarming as before.

I smirk, give Cassie a well-deserved high-five, then finally return to cleaning up while the kids continue arguing over whether my victory should count.

It’s a quick job, and less than half an hour later I’m standing outside Riverfront, clipboard in hand, as guardians sign kids out and load them up for the ride to their temporary homes.

The gym slowly empties behind me, the shrieks and squeaking sneakers fading away. Maybe if I’m lucky, my ears will stop ringing by dinner. The front doors swing open behind me.

I glance over my shoulder just as Boston steps outside carrying two bulging black trash bags, one in each hand. Cassie and Bronx trail behind him like ducklings, still bickering over the race.

“I’m just saying,” Bronx argues, “if she can carry Cassie, you could’ve carried me.”

Boston shakes his head. “Yeah, but unlike some people—” he throws me a meaningful look—“I don’t cheat.”

I laugh, collect yet another signature, then watch as the corresponding child clambers into the waiting car.

“Go wait with Skye,” Boston tells his siblings while he drops the bags in the dumpster. He joins us just as a beige minivan pulls into the pickup line.

Cassie immediately straightens. “That’s Ms. Mindy.”

It’s subtle, but Boston’s expression dims, the laughter and lightheartedness gone from his gray eyes. I frown, momentarily confused.

The van barely stops before Bronx yanks the side door open.