Page 23 of Just a Distraction

Right now? I’ve got to help Milo. “Okay. I’m going to call 911.”

“No!” His face blanches in pain. “Is there like a big rock or something you could stand on? Or maybe there’s a house nearby with a ladder you could borrow. I just feel like if we had some leverage here.” He hops on one leg, his arms windmilling.

“Milo, I may not be a nurse yet, but this does seem to warrant medical help.” I reach over and run a finger along the top of the swing and then try to insert my finger between his hip and the soft swing. He inhales sharply.

“I’m not trying to get frisky or anything,” I say. “Just assessing things. There’s still enough room for my pinky, so I doubt you’re in too much danger here. But you are wedged in there hard.”

“That about sums it up.”

I ease closer to him and brush my fingertips along his cheekbone, searching his face. “I will get you out of here, Milo. Don’t worry.” I almost add his last name, Tate. I saw it when he let me take a picture of his driver’s license. But I’m trying not to remember it. Because I’m not going to see him again after this.

“Thanks,” he says, smiling faintly. “You know this feels like it’s made out of a wrestling mat.” He knocks against it with his fist. “I can imagine it would be quite comfortable for babies.”

I could answer that in the affirmative, but I don’t.

“We’re gonna need the jaws of life,” I say, before holding up the phone to my ear.

“Absolutely not,” he says.

But I don’t respond because the dispatcher answers.

I’m holding Milo’s hand, feeling helpless when I hear the siren in the distance. “They’re almost here. Just hold on.” I type out a quick text to my sister, Eden, reassuring her that I’m okay and enjoying my time. I explain that I won’t be home for a while longer, but I don’t elaborate on why.

She texts back a bunch of clapping emojis.

“I’m fine,” Milo insists. “Any possible future children may not be.” He grinds his teeth together.

I feel my mouth twitching and my throat tickling. “Stop. You can’t be trying to make me laugh at a time like this.”

His cheeks have reddened, and he does another hop to gain his footing on the one leg that can reach the ground, his right leg hanging down uselessly. “You think my virility is a laughing matter?”

“Certainly not. It was more the tone that cracked me up.” I want to brush a lock of hair out of his face. But I have to keep my distance from this man.

When the ambulance pulls up, the red and blue lights casting shadows across his face, I step back. The EMTs survey the situation, and I feel slightly justified when both the driver and the EMT can’t hold back their smiles. They’re professional about it and not making fun of him. Still, I’m quite positive these guys will be sharing the story of the grown man stuck in a baby swing for a long time.

Before long, a firetruck arrives.

“The fire department?” Milo’s eyes widen and he shakes his head. “What’s next? The governor? The police chief? Am I going to be arrested for ruining public property?”

“You’ll be fined, I’m sure,” one of the EMTs says, assessing the situation.

“As I deserve to be,” grumbles Milo.

One of the firefighters bites back a smile while another looks frustrated for being dragged out here for a problem like this.

“We’ve done this before,” the smiling firefighter assures him. Two firefighters

gets on either side of him while another stands behind him. The two at his sides grab hold of him, lifting him up collectively while another one uses what looks like bolt cutters to clip through the chains with aclank. Then they ease him to a lying position on the grass.

Milo stares up at the sky. “On the bright side, there’s the Big Dipper!” he says cheerfully. I laugh again, willing myself to stay calm this time and not explode like a hyena.

As he lies on his back, I sink down on my knees next to him, smoothing his forehead. “It’s almost over.”

“This lying position isn’t bad. I could be like this for hours.”

I glance down at him, the half of the baby swing that doesn’t have a leg through it looking like a sidecar to his body.

The firefighters produce bottles of oily stuff. They pour it over his green pants and down his hip, into the hole where his leg is wedged, shaking out the bottles as the oil glugs out. As it seems to seep through the fabric of Milo’s pants, it’s his turn to giggle.

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