The world passed slowly as they drove. Streets, billboards, people all mingled behind the haze of his breath on the cool window. It was late, yet traffic was at a crawl. Jubilant fans were filtering into the streets from Target Field a few blocks away. He sighed. The deciding game of the Twins’ playoff series had just ended, and it seemed like everyone in Minneapolis had been there.

   

     Each excited fan in blue and red made his heart ache. How wrong it felt to see them so happy when he was so miserable. He had looked forward to the game too. It wasn’t fair. If only they’d go away. He closed and opened his eyes, but no one vanished. Sighing again, he fogged the window and doodled until he noticed the steam rising from the storm drain on the corner. It churned and swirled and even seemed to be taking a shape. He froze. The hairs on his arms stood on end. He wiped the moisture from the glass and stared. For a second, it looked like…

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     “Mom, do you see…?”

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     “What, honey?” she said, massaging her temples.  

   

     He blinked and looked again. It was gone. “Nevermind,” he mumbled.

   

     Mom sniffled as she drove. There had been a lot of held-back tears the last two days. He wanted to tell her it would be ok, but he couldn’t. The bruises on her face, the cracked lip and strained expression couldn’t hide the hurt that haunted both of them. At least they had left the shelter, though he didn’t look forward to what awaited them at the apartment. He hadn’t wanted to go back, but Mom insisted. She had talked with her sister and they were headed for Peoria, wherever that was, but first they needed clothes and money.

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     Neither spoke as they pulled up to the dark, red brick building. Mom squeezed his hand and gave him a weak smile. Together they scaled the cracked concrete steps and up to the fourth floor. Outside #407, her hands trembled as she worked to turn the key. She was scared too, he knew. But as he watched, there was a strange sound. It was not the lock mechanism but something soft, like gentle scratching on the other side. Could it be? He flew inside once the door opened. His eyes darted from the living room to the kitchen. Only silence greeted him.    

   

     Mom rubbed his shoulders. “Come on,” she said. “Get a bag ready. We need to go.”

    

     “I’m tired, mom.”

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     She knelt to face him. “I know, baby. Me too.” She looked at her watch. The purple and yellow bruise on her forearm peeked from underneath it. “Tell you what. Get your bag then we’ll lie down for a bit. Some rest will do both of us good.”

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     He nodded and headed to his bedroom down the hall. After collecting some clothes, he crawled into bed. His tired body sagged into the mattress and just before drifting off, a feeling of warmth, like something snuggling against him, brought a familiar comfort that soothed him to sleep.

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     After what felt like minutes, he shot up. A thump, like the sound of wood on wood, had startled him awake. In the dark he saw his Twins bat rolling on the floor. How had it fallen off its wall mount? His attention then jerked to the door. There was a soft growl coming from it. He picked up the bat and tiptoed forward. The growl was soon replaced by voices. They were low, barely above a whisper. Gripping the bat, he cautiously ventured out.

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     Inching toward the kitchen, he stopped at the edge of the single bulb’s reach. His heart thundered when he looked in. It was him! Why was he out of jail so soon? The lawyer had said it would be at least a week. They were safe he had said. But here he was, leaning over his mother, tattooed fingers around her throat, again. Tears streaked her cheeks as she clawed and flailed in his iron grip.

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     Frozen, the boy’s eyes watered when hers fell on him and pleaded for him to get away. He wanted to but his body refused to move. He couldn’t breathe. But then he saw it, wafting along the floor toward the attacker. A mist, shifting and morphing until it became the clear outline of a small dog. Its jaws opened and attacked. As if struck by lightning, the assailant released his grip and dropped to the ground in confused pain.

 

     The mist retreated and swirled about the boy’s feet. He looked at it, at his sobbing, coughing mother, at the man she had hoped would be a father to him, and at the bat clutched in his hands. The fear then retreated, and he knew what to do.

   

     Stepping forward, he set his stance, choked up on the bat, and swung for the fences. The bat splintered as it smashed into the man’s temple. He groaned and dropped with a thud.

   

     An hour later, the boy sat in the living room wrapped in a blanket. Paramedics tended to his mother. They both watched indifferently as his restrained stepfather was loaded onto a gurney.  A kind officer, with dark skin and a big smile, knelt next to him and watched his expression as the injured man disappeared out the door.

     

     “You’re a hero, young man,” she said, patting his knee. “You saved your mother’s life.”

     

     “No,” he said matter-of-factly. “Mitzie’s the hero.”

     

     Puzzled, the officer asked, “Who’s Mitzie?”

     

     “She’s my poodle. Rico killed her the last time he fought with Mom. But she stayed to tell me how to protect us from him.” His mom smiled from the kitchen. “Can I be with my mom now?” he asked.

     

     The officer nodded, though not understanding what he had just told her. 

     

     He disappeared in his mother’s arms. They smiled at one another. They were finally safe, though no one would ever believe how.