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A Little Girl Who Needed An Angel l When I lived in New York, my main mode of transportation was a bike. I worked six days each week, and my bicycle thought that the one day I had free should be spent fixing it. That was what I was doing the day Emily first showed up. I was in the driveway repairing my bike when I heard her voice behind me. “What the *#&@ are you doing?” Although I had heard some rough women speak with that kind of language, I had mostly only heard it from men. But when I turned around, to my surprise, I found myself looking into the face of a skinny, little six-year-old girl. Her dark brown hair hung loosely, uncombed, and ragged around her face. Her big brown eyes stared at me questioningly. It took me an instant to regain my composure after realizing it was such a young girl speaking that way. “I’m fixing my bike,” I replied. “Don’t you have any *#&@ thing better to do?” she asked. “I see you working on that *#&@ thing every week.” 33
