As soon as she said it, I remembered Emily telling me the same thing.

"Do you think you're ready to try some hills?"

"I don't know," she said, giving me a sidelong look. "They're kind of scary."

"They're not too bad," I said. "And it's kind of fun to go even faster."

Letting go of the handlebar again, she reached over and scratched at her opposite arm. Again the bike wobbled.

"I think I got stung by a mosquito."

"Probably," I said. "But mosquitoes bite, they don't sting."

"It's itchy."

"I know. When we get back home, I'll put some hydrocortisone cream on your arm, okay?"

We eventually made our way to the hillier section of the neighborhood, pedaling up a gradual incline. The opposite side was shorter and slightly steeper, and when we reached the top, London slowed her bike to a stop and put her feet down.

"What do you think?" I asked.

"It's kind of big," she said, an anxious tremor in her voice.

"I think you can do it," I said encouragingly. "How about we give it a try?"

As a kid, I barely would have considered the slope a hill. Of course, I was remembering something from a quarter century earlier, and in my mind, I had always known how to ride a bike. Perhaps I'd forgotten the uncertainties of being a beginner.

I say this now because of what happened next; I'll also say that had there not been a specific chain of unpredictable events one leading to the next in a domino effect then most likely, everything would have been fine. But it wasn't.

As soon as London got the bike moving again, she wobbled and swerved from the middle of the road to the left-hand side. It was a bigger wobble and more of a swerve than I'd seen in a while and she probably would have righted herself, were it not for the car that began to back out of the driveway twenty yards up. I doubted the driver had seen us; hedges surrounded the yard and London was small. Furthermore, the driver seemed to be in a hurry, based on his speed, even in reverse. London locked on to the sight of the car and swerved farther left; simultaneously, she slapped at another mosquito bite. Directly ahead of her loomed a mailbox mounted on a sturdy base.

Her front tire hit the shoulder where the asphalt met the dirt.

"Watch out!" I screamed, as the bike wobbled hard. London tried to get her other hand back on the handlebars but it slipped off the grip. By then, I knew what would happen, and I watched in horror as the front wheel suddenly jerked. London catapulted over the handlebars, her head and upper body smashing into the mailbox with a sickening thud.

I was off my bike and racing toward her, screaming her name even as her front tire continued to spin. I vaguely noticed the look of surprise on the driver's face before I crouched beside London's limp form.

She was facedown, unmoving, utterly silent. Panic flooded every nerve as I gently turned her over.

So much blood.

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God...

I don't know whether I was saying the words or hearing them in my mind as my insides turned to jelly. Her eyes were closed; her arm had simply flopped to the ground when I'd rolled her, like she was sleeping.

But she wasn't sleeping.

And her wrist looked as though someone had stuffed half a lemon under the skin.

In that instant, my fear was as all consuming as anything I'd ever experienced. I prayed for a sign that she was still alive, but for what seemed an eternity, there was nothing. Finally, her eyelids fluttered and I heard a sharp intake of breath. The scream that followed was ear shattering.

By then, the driver was gone, and I doubted whether he'd even seen what happened. I didn't have my phone so I couldn't call 911. I thought about rushing to a house any house to use their phone to call an ambulance, but I didn't want to leave my daughter. Those thoughts raced through my head in the blink of an eye and she had to get to the hospital.

The hospital...

I scooped her into my arms and began to run, cradling my injured daughter in my arms.

I tore through the neighborhood, feeling neither my legs nor my arms, hurtling forward with single-minded purpose.

As soon as I reached our house, I opened the car door and laid London on the backseat. The blood continued to flow from a gaping wound on her head, soaking her top as if it had been dipped in red paint.

I raced into the house to grab my keys and wallet and rushed back to the car, slamming the front door of the house so loudly that the windows rattled. Jumping behind the wheel of the car, I turned the key, my tires squealing.

On the seat behind me, London was no longer moving and her eyes were closed again.

My senses sharpened with adrenaline, I had never been more aware of my surroundings as I edged the accelerator higher. I flew past houses and rolled through a stop sign before gunning the engine again.

Hitting the main road, I passed cars on the left and right. At a red light, I came to a stop, then rolled through, ignoring the sounds of honking horns.

London lay silent and terrifyingly inert.

I made the fifteen-minute drive in less than seven minutes and slammed to a halt directly in front of the emergency room. Again, I cradled my daughter in my arms and carried her into the half-full waiting area.

The intake nurse knew an emergency when she saw one and was already rising as she called out, "This way!" directing me through the double doors.

Rushing her into an examination room, I laid my daughter on the table as a nurse hustled in, followed a moment later by a doctor.

I struggled to explain what had happened while the doctor lifted her eyelids and shone a light at her pupils. His movements were efficient as he barked commands to the nurses.

"I think she was unconscious," I said, feeling helpless, to which the doctor responded tersely with some medical jargon that I couldn't hope to comprehend. The blood was wiped from London's face and her wrist briefly examined.

"Is she going to be okay?" I finally asked.

"She needs a CAT scan," he replied, "but I've got to staunch the bleeding first." Time seemed to slow down as I watched the nurse clean London's face more thoroughly with an antiseptic pad, revealing a half-inch gash directly above her eyebrow. "We can stitch this, but I'd recommend that we get a plastic surgeon in here to do it so we can minimize the scarring. I'll see who's available unless you prefer to call a surgeon you know."

My new client.

I mentioned the doctor's name and the ER doctor nodded. "He's very good," he said before turning to one of the nurses. "See if he can make it here. If not, find out who's on call."

As two more nurses entered with a gurney, London stirred and began to whimper. In an instant, I was at her side, murmuring to her, but her gaze seemed unfocused and she didn't seem to know where she was. Everything was happening so fast...

As the doctor started to question her gently, all I could think was that I'd convinced her to ride down the hill.

What kind of father was I?

What kind of father would urge his child into such a risky situation?

I was sure that the doctor was asking himself the same questions when he looked at me. I watched as gauze pads and bandages were plastered on my daughter's head.

"We're going to need to take her now," he said, and without waiting for my response, London was wheeled from the room.

I filled out the insurance paperwork and used the hospital phone to call Marge. She agreed to swing by my house and grab my phone before coming to the hospital; she also said she would call Liz and my parents.

In the waiting room, I sat with hands together and head bowed, praying for the first time in years, praying that my little girl would recover and hating myself for what I'd done.

My dad was the first to arrive; he'd been working a job just a few blocks away, and he strode into the waiting room, his face tight with worry. When I filled him in, he didn't offer or expect a hug; instead, he took a seat in the chair beside me. Or rather, he nearly collapsed into it. I watched as he closed his eyes and when he finally opened them, he couldn't meet my eyes.

I realized then that he was as terrified as I was.

Liz arrived next, then my mom, and finally Marge, who looked paler than usual. Unlike my dad, they all wanted and needed to be held after I shared what I knew. My mom cried. Liz clasped her hands together, as if praying. Marge wheezed and coughed and took a puff of her inhaler.

My dad finally spoke.

"She'll be all right," he said.

But I knew he said it because he wanted to believe it, not because he actually thought it was true.

My client, the plastic surgeon, arrived soon thereafter and I rose from my seat.

"Thank you for coming," I said. "I can't tell you how much this means to me."

"You're welcome. I have kids, too, so I understand. Let me head back and see what I can do."

He disappeared through the double doors.

We waited.

Then waited some more, an agonizing limbo.

In time, the doctors finally appeared.

I tried and failed to read their expressions as they motioned for us to follow them back. Leading us into one of the patient rooms, they closed the door behind us.

"I'm pretty certain she's going to be all right," the ER doctor said without preamble. "The CAT scan showed no signs of any subdural hematomas or other brain injuries. London is fully conscious now and was able to answer questions. She knew where she was and what had happened to her. Those are all good signs."

It felt as though my entire body released a breath I hadn't known it was holding. "That said, she was unconscious for a while, so we're going to keep her overnight for observation. It's just a precaution. In rare cases, swelling can occur later, but I'm not expecting to see that. We just want to make sure. And, of course, she'll have to take it very easy for the next few days. She can probably go back to school on Wednesday, but no physical activity for at least a week."

"How about the gash on her head?"

My client answered. "It was a clean gash. I stitched it on the inside and the outside. There's going to a light scar that may last for a few years, but it should fade over time."

I nodded. "And her arm?"

"It was her wrist," the ER doc answered. "The X-ray didn't show a break, but there's so much swelling we can't be sure. There are a number of small bones in the wrist so there's no way to tell right now whether anything is broken. Right now, we're thinking that it's just a nasty sprain, but you'll have to bring her in for another X-ray in a week or two to be sure. The splint is fine until then."

Unconscious. Scarred. A wrist that may be sprained or worse. The information left me feeling depleted.

"May I see her?"

"Of course," he said. "She's getting a splint put on her wrist right now and will be moved to a private room, but that shouldn't take long. All in all, considering what happened, she was lucky. It's a good thing she was wearing a helmet. It could have been a lot worse."

Thank God Vivian had insisted that I make London wear a helmet, I thought.

Vivian.

I'd completely forgotten to call her.

"How are you feeling, sweetheart?" I asked.

London looked better than when I brought her into the emergency room, but she certainly wasn't the little girl who'd hopped on her bike earlier that afternoon. A large white bandage obscured her forehead and her wrist looked tiny in its bulky splint. Pale and fragile, she appeared as though she were being swallowed by her bed.

My mom and dad, along with Liz and Marge, had crowded into the room, and after the hugs and kisses and tales of worry, I'd taken a seat on the bed beside London. I reached for her good hand and felt her squeeze it.

"My head hurts," she said. "And my wrist hurts, too."

"I know," I said. "I'm sorry, baby girl."

"I don't like sunscreen," she protested, her voice weak. "It made my handlebars slippery."

I flashed on the image of her scratching at the bites on her arms. "I didn't think about that," I said. "We probably don't need too much sunscreen anyway now that the summer is done."

"Is my bike okay?"

I realized I'd left both bikes where they lay. I wondered if someone had removed mine from the road, suspecting that someone had. Maybe even the driver. I was also pretty sure that the bikes would be there until I returned to pick them up; it was that kind of neighborhood.

"I'm sure it is, but if it isn't, we can fix it. Or get a new one."

"Is Mommy coming?"

I really, really need to make that call, I thought.

"I'll find out, okay? I'm sure she'll want to talk to you."

"Okay, Daddy."

I kissed the top of her head. "I'll be right back, okay?"

The rest of my family crowded around the bed while I stepped into the hallway. I made for the elevators, seeking privacy. What I hadn't wanted was anyone in my family London especially listening in on a conversation that I was dreading. When I checked my phone, I noticed that Vivian had already called twice, no doubt wanting to speak with London. I connected the call, and felt my stomach begin to clench.

"London?" she asked, picking up.

"No, it's me, Russ," I said. "I wanted to let you know right off the bat that London is fine. I'll put her on the phone in a few minutes, but you should know that she's okay first."

"Why? What happened?" Vivian's fear came through like an electric current.

"We were bike riding and she crashed. She sprained her wrist and cut her forehead, and I had to bring her to the hospital..."

"The hospital?"