• A few hours ago, I was the happiest in the world; nice house, good grades, loving family, pretty much anything I asked for. That all came crashing down in less than a second.
    We were playing baseball in the street, like we always do on Saturday. The four cul-de-sacs in our neighborhood all had their own teams. The game was us against the team across the street. My little brother always was umpire; he was too young to play, and he would pester me if we didn’t just let him. Normally all the parents came and watched, so we wouldn’t have to break for cars. We were serious about our baseball. There weren’t that many parents out that day, but they naturally avoided this street anyway.
    I was playing second base. My best friend was up to bat. I was talking to the pitcher. I heard it. The awful screech of tires losing traction. I looked up and saw, ripping around the corner, an old 1966 baby blue Ford mustang. “Run!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. I had just reached the sidewalk when I heard an ear-splitting squeal. “SAMMY!” I screamed, turning just in time to see my brother’s small, frail body thrown into the air. Sprinting to catch him before he landed, I felt chills run down my spine. I already knew he was dead. I gently lay his broken body on the unforgiving asphalt. Grabbing a bat, I turn, ready to pummel the guy who ran over my little brother, or at least do some major damage to his car. But he was gone. Nobody moved. What had started as an innocent Saturday afternoon ended like a horrible nightmare.