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bluster. “I guess I’d find a way to make it happen.”
    He laughed. “And that’s my girl.”
    Two and a half hours later they were bundled against the cold, full of diner pancakes, and flying down the sand in a glittered magenta fiberglass dune buggy. Sol whooped and hollered every time they hit a bump that temporarily lifted them out of their seats. It wasn’t her favorite recreational activity, but he was having such a good time that she wouldn’t put a stop to it even if she turned into a popsicle.
    She turned to look at him just as he let out a huge whoop. Then the horizon was turning the wrong direction and the ground was coming toward her like it was falling down on top of her. When she landed on the wet hard pack sand, her breath was knocked out of her and every last nerve ending was frozen in shock from the impact. Lying there, she had no way of predicting whether that paralysis was temporary, permanent, or some sort of prelude to dying.
    After an agonizing minute that felt like hours, she was able to rake in a breath. It took longer to mentally check over her body for injuries. She felt stunned, but not seriously injured. At least not in terms of bleeding or breakage.
    She’d landed on her front side with her head turned toward the water. From that position all she could see was the ocean and sky. The wind was cold, punishing, and relentless. When she was able to lift her head and turn it the other direction, she saw that the dune buggy was turned over. She tried to call for Sol, but with the wind so high she wasn’t sure she’d actually made a sound. All she’d managed to do was get a mouthful of sand.
    With nothing to help her but will and determination, she managed to get to her hands and knees. She started crawling toward the wreck while spitting sand out of her mouth. If it was June the beach would be populated with people walking dogs, jogging, building sand castles with their children. But the beach at Cape May in March seemed as deserted as the Siberian tundra. There was no one to help.
    She couldn’t see Sol so she assumed he was on the other side of the dune buggy. When she got close enough to touch it, she got a grip on the undercarriage frame and used it to pull herself to an upright position. Her body protested loudly, letting her know that she needed to prepare to be one solid bruise for a while.
    She tested her ability to walk with a small step, still holding onto the buggy’s frame. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was possible. She continued gingerly inching her way around to the other side.
    “Sol,” she tried calling again. “You’re scaring me.”
    She thought she heard him answer, but couldn’t be sure. So she kept going that direction.
    There was nothing that could have prepared her for the trauma of what she saw when she came around the front and could see the other side. Sol lay on his back, his leg pinned underneath the buggy where a monstrous pool of blood had formed. His face was white as snow.
    The sight swept her off her feet as surely as if she’d been physically knocked down. She fell to her knees and crawled the rest of the way. She heard a strange hiccupping sound through the wind. When her muddled mind put together that the sound matched the jerking of her chest, she realized it was coming from her, that and sheets of tears blown dry by the wind almost as soon as they fell.
    When she reached him, she saw his eyes cut to her face. He opened his mouth and tried to say something, but nothing was coming out.
    “I’ve got to get help. Got to get help.” She started jerking her outerwear off and covering him up with it. The whole time she was chanting, “Got to get help,” in between sobs. She couldn’t leave him and couldn’t help him without leaving him. Finally, the cloud in her mind cleared away enough for an image of a phone to form. “Phone,” she said out loud.
    She started looking around and spied the red crocheted bag she’d brought along on their outing.