by Bernita Harris
His prayer changed.
"Please God, let me make it," he said into the night and the rain, fixing his eyes on the pin-point of light half a mile away.
The light that means warm hands, carbolic and bandages. The light that meant help.
That light, the shimmering bead in the shouting night, the tiny glow that dimmed and refracted in halos before his rain-drenched eyes, he counted to keep him true.
Keep him steady in spite of the pain and the seeping blood.
Keep him away from the laboring, swollen river that shouldered and undercut the bank along his passage, beside his heavy feet.
Sometime in the sodden, staggering journey along the river path, the only path, his prayer changed.
"Please, Lena, please don't douse the lamps."