He heard Kitt’s shout over the noise of running water. Heard it stop. Truck exploded through the bushes and into a small clearing right behind Vanna, to see…nothing. The sound of water came from directly ahead, but he couldn’t see the creek. Couldn’t see Kitt. Couldn’t hear him, either. Truck’s steps faltered and Vanna flew ahead. Then he saw it, recognized the dip across the field that hid the waterway, meandering alongside the edge of the clearing where it butted up against the woods. Head down, he put on speed and passed her, a dozen strides later brought him to the edge of the bank to see a fresh scar where the edge had given way.
Without a thought for his own safety, he launched himself off the bank and into the water, bones jarring in his body when his boots unexpectedly met the gravel of a solid but shallow sandbar. Laughter came from behind him and he turned, twisting in the calf-deep water to see Kitt lying just below the bank. Mud smeared on his face, the boy was flat on his back in about ten-inches of water. Kitt was holding onto something with one hand, the soggy wrapping paper losing its glitter as the gently flowing water tugged at the edges. He was gleefully slapping at the water with his other hand, splashing and making waves.
A shadow cut across Kitt’s form and Truck looked up to see Vanna teetering on the edge. She held her balance for a moment, then stumbled as the bank let go again and she fell towards the water. With a lunge, he caught her in mid-air, arms wrapped around her back, her feet swinging and hitting his knees with the force of her arrested fall.
Still laughing, Kitt pointed at Truck where he stood in the middle of the creek holding his mother, and said, “Truck came.”
Truck held her for a moment, savoring the feel of her even in this situation, before he let her slide down his front. By then she was fighting to get free, pushing and twisting in his arms. She let out a single shocked hiss when her bare feet hit the freezing water, and then she was gone. Turning away, high-stepping it through the waterway, she slipped on moss-covered rocks covering the creek bed. Truck moved with her, hands hovering to catch her again if needed. Stumbling backwards, she nearly took a tumble twice before collapsing on her knees beside Kitt.
The depth of her understanding of how the boy’s head worked was proven when she reached him. There were no angry shouts from her, no furiously terrified threats to confuse Kitt. Instead she carefully gathered her son in her arms and Truck heard her say, “Brave boy. My Kitt’s such a brave boy. Look at you, all covered in creek water. Sitting right here in the water, the biggest treasure I ever found. Look at you, my boy. My Kitt. How brave you are.”
“Water,” Kitt said and shrugged, struggling to sit up without losing his mother’s touch. He held out the tattered thing he had been cradling to his chest. His gaze was stuck on the surface of the water, but the top of his head angled towards Truck. “Present.”
“I see you have something for Truck,” Vanna said. She shifted beside Kitt, and finally lost her battle to retain her feet, slippery rocks and swiftly-flowing water winning the day as they conspired to knock her on her ass. Her teeth had begun to chatter when she asked, “Can we go home first, Kitt?”
Kitt’s gaze lifted from where it had been focused on watching the water flow around his legs and he looked at his mother. Drawing the package back to his chest, he reached out with his other hand, tapping two fingers against Vanna’s shoulder, he said, “Treasure.”
“Yes, Kitt. We’ll come back and find treasures again, when the water’s not quite so cold.” Truck heard the tremble in her voice and knew it to be a combination of things. Relief at her boy safely found; the draining adrenaline drop following their successful rushing chase; and the December chill of the water seeping into her flesh. It was that last one he was most concerned with. Not only was she barefooted, the t-shirt and shin-length pajama bottoms she wore were thin and—soaked as they were—would offer no protection from the cold-for-Florida December day.
“NO!” Kitt shouted and his gaze lifted to Truck. “Truck’s treasure.” His hand thumped Vanna’s shoulder again as his gaze dipped. “Home.”
Kitt
Truck helped Vanna Mom up the bank and away from the fast water. Not scary. Not now. Kitt scrambled up behind them, gripping roots one-handed, toes digging for purchase in the moving dirt. He laughed aloud when the hands lifted under his bottom and pushed, laughed louder when he heard the woman say, Such a big boy.
Vanna Mom stood beside Truck and Kitt moved to them, looking down to see Vanna Mom’s toes curling up and away from the mud, while Kitt’s toes dug down in, and Truck’s boots stood on the surface. “Different,” he said, and agreed when he heard, Different isn’t always bad. “Up, down, on.”
“Kitt,” Truck said and Kitt tipped the top of his head to indicate he heard. “You okay to walk home, son?”