We rolled up with the truck, and it was instant chaos — brown water boiling from the street, horns blaring, somebody already filming instead of moving their car.
I waded in, boots filling, pants soaking, thinking about 6:30 the whole time.
Each minute tightened around my chest.
Five-thirty came and went while we wrestled hoses and cursed at rusted valves.
At 5:50, I climbed out of the hole, soaked and shaking.
“I gotta go,” I yelled to my supervisor, grabbing my bag.
He frowned like I’d just suggested we leave the water running forever.
“My kid’s recital,” I said, throat tight.
He stared for a heartbeat, then jerked his chin.
“Go. You’re no good here anyway if your brain’s already gone.”
That was as close to kindness as he got.
I ran.
No time to change, no time to shower — just soaked boots slapping concrete and my heart trying to escape.
I made the subway as doors were closing.
People edged away from me on the train, noses wrinkling.
I couldn’t blame them; I smelled like a flooded basement.
I stared at the time on my phone the whole ride, bargaining with every stop.
When I finally hit the school, I sprinted down the hallway, lungs burning worse than my legs.
The auditorium doors swallowed me in perfumed air.
Inside, everything felt soft and polished.
Moms with perfect curls, dads in pressed shirts, little kids in crisp outfits.
I slid into a seat in the back, still breathing like I’d run a marathon through a swamp.
Onstage, tiny dancers lined up, pink tutus like flowers.
Lily stepped into the light, blinking hard.
Her eyes searched rows like emergency lights.
For a second, she couldn’t find me.
Then her gaze jumped to the back row and locked on mine.
I raised my hand, filthy sleeve and all.
Her whole body loosened like she could finally exhale.
She danced like the stage was hers.
She wasn’t perfect — a wobble, a wrong turn, a quick glance at the girl beside her for a cue.
But her smile grew every time she spun, and I swear I could feel my heart trying to clap its way out of my chest.
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