Read The Second Lie for Free Online Page B

stalks that were shoulder-high in places. Those same stalks would soon be taller than me. From spring planting until fall harvesting, I skated by, witnessing birth, growth and death. All in a few short months.
    It kind of put my human existence in perspective. Add some time to the mix--several decades, I hoped--and that would be the pattern of my life, too. All of our lives. Just that simple. Birth, growth and death. And a new spring would come with fresh seedlings. New birth. New growth. And next fall, another death.
    A never-ending cycle. As exemplified by the stalks of corn whizzing past in my peripheral vision.
    I liked the never-ending part; it defied death.
    I half chuckled--the half that could spare the air. Leave it up to me to turn a recreational skate and a few stalks of corn into a philosophical life lesson.
    But it wasn't the lesson I was seeking that night, and I just kept "skating on my problems," as I referred to my habit of meditating on anything that was bothering me while I skated. Heck, who was I kidding? I skated on everything . From what my new office couch should look like to the fact that my household was ruled by a four-pound very spoiled toy poodle.
    Whenever something puzzled me, stumped me, caused any kind of doubt within me, I "skated on it."
    Sometimes I just "skated on it" for confirmation. Or for the courage to actually do whatever I was pondering.
    That was tonight. I knew what I should do. I just needed the courage to do it. So much was at risk. A child's life.
    Skating took away the fear. And any other distractions that clogged my thoughts. And...I could see that I had no time to lose.
    My brake pushed against the black asphalt and, with knees bent, I took the stop like a pro, turned and traversed the two miles back to my car quickly enough to win a speed-skating race. I didn't even bother to wipe off the sweat sliding beneath the back of my sleeveless T-shirt before I was on my phone.
    Sam picked up on the first ring. "Sam?" I asked, though I recognized her voice.
    "Yeah?" My high school buddy sounded hesitant. Like I was a doctor bearing bad news.
    Probably because she'd been a recent--mostly uncooperative--sort of patient. If you could call a friend seeking an M.D. referral for sleeping pills a patient.
    "How are you?" I asked, because I cared. And to bug her, too. Maybe if I bugged her enough, she'd unload on me. It would be in anger, but I wasn't picky. Anger would open the door I needed to get inside and help her.
    As a general rule, carefully directed anger could be a positive thing.
    And if Sam got mad, she'd get over it.
    "I'm fine."
    "Sleeping?" Another thing I knew about Sam--she might lie to herself on occasion, but she wouldn't lie to me.
    "Some."
    "Better than you were?" I grabbed a pen out of the cup holder beside me and tapped the leather steering wheel of my spiffy new blue Dodge Nitro. I'd drive home, but it'd be kinda hard to push the gas with an in-line skate on my foot. I chewed the end of the pen instead.
    "Not noticeably."
    "I wish you'd come talk to me."
    "I wish you'd give me a referral for sleeping pills."
    "Uh-uh." Sam needed to deal with the demons keeping her up at night, not numb them.
    "I'll probably be glad you said that at some point."
    "Probably."
    "Right now it kind of pisses me off. I mean, what are friends for?"
    I was sitting in my SUV with the door open in a deserted parking lot on a country road--something Sam wouldn't approve of if she knew. "To have your back," I said, dragging my heavy feet, still in skates, inside and locking the door.
    Sam's silence was compliance enough for me.
    "I called to ask a favor," I said then, back to tapping my pen instead of chewing it. Sam and I had known each other since grade school. And we'd played basketball together for a year during high school before I quit to be a receptionist at the local assisted-living facility. (We'd called it an old folks' home back then.) Sam had spent more time hanging out at the police