She looked to be about eight. Her father was tall, a Euro-looking man with the beginnings of a beard. They were standing before a blue sign that the mousy girl had insisted stopping at. Her father gulped, his eyes glazing over a little. A powerful breeze blew all of our ponytails and hanging locks back, making the Vista Bridge crossing a little more difficult. The father looked back down, settling in a decision.
"Well," he said, composing himself, "When the boy scouts look for opportunities, they help people who have a hard time walking cross things, like this bridge. It's a nice service." The father looked away, trying to cast the lies off to the side, perhaps towards my feet. "That number is the Boy Scout Hotline, which gets into their walkie-talkies."
"Do the walkie-talkies have numbers?" The father's face softened instead of reddening. A trait gained in parenting, I guessed.
"Some," he said, taking the girl's hand and walking her further. There was a teenager on the bridge, too, standing on the rail and looking over. She wasn't moving - she was still, rigid. A large, knit beret covered her head, and she leaned on her elbows.
"Does she need help crossing?" At that time, I didn't realize that she actually did.
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