Lupe
A sudden storm breaks out in the park and one of the joggers is struck by a fallen tree.
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The park ground is still wet from two days of heavy rain, puddles shattered like broken mirrors across the path. You pick your way between them while stubborn joggers leap and curse, already drenched from the effort.
For a moment it feels like the weather might turn — the shy morning sun peeks through the grey clouds — but it disappears just as quickly.
Thunder cracks, and beyond the tree line, car alarms scream. The wind presses into your ears — a constant, drowning wssshhh — until the rain slams down.
Almost.
Beneath it, you catch a sharp, broken yelp of pain that doesn’t belong to the storm.
You turn, peering through the sheeting rain toward the old bench on the side path. A huge maple branch — almost a third of the tree — has come crashing down.
Beneath the tangle of wet leaves and splintered wood, you see white leggings. A woman, one of the joggers, is pinned underneath. Her legs scramble desperately for purchase in the mud.