Page 27 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland

Sometimes there are no answers to our questions. And that’s why the Universe made TikTok.

—Evie Oxby, CBS Mornings

The double-parked delivery truck had obviously blocked the driver’s vision, and in what felt like a hundredth of a second, Beatrice saw the driver’s face contort with shock.

But no matter what, no matter how quickly the woman slammed on her brakes or spun the wheel, there was no way to prevent the impact.

She was going too fast, with no one close enough to the boy to grab him out of the way.

There were no screams, no sound. Not yet. There would be soon. For now, Beatrice was the only witness.

A blast of heat roared through her and suddenly she was toppled, crumpled to the cement.

Then the boy was in her arms, slammed into her body like he’d been thrown at her, which, essentially, he had been.

Because he’d flown.

She’d watched.

One instant, he was about to be mown down by the woman driving the red car, the next it was as if he’d sprouted wings, his small body bent backward as he was shot through the air into her arms. Beatrice looked down at him.

His nose was bleeding. His mouth was wide open for three, four, five long seconds, and then his wail matched that of his mother’s, who dropped to the cement next to Beatrice.

“How—I saw him— Dario , Jesus.” The dark-haired woman wiped away the blood with her hand. “Dario, baby, are you okay?”

The boy launched himself out of Beatrice’s grasp and into the arms of his mother.

The driver, an older woman wearing a bedazzled denim jacket, raced toward them, her car abandoned in the roadway. Beatrice could still hear the squeal of her brakes echoing in the air.

“Did I hit him? I swear I didn’t touch him, but how did— did I hit him? ”

Beatrice shook her head. “He wasn’t hit.”

“I saw it,” stammered Dario’s mother. “I saw him fly. To you. It was a miracle. You performed a miracle.” She held the boy in one arm, and with her free arm, she grabbed at Beatrice’s hand. It wasn’t until the woman was pressing her lips to Beatrice’s fingers that she understood what she was doing.

Beatrice yanked her hand away. “I didn’t do anything!”

The driver had tears running down her face. “I swear I didn’t hit him. There was no impact.”

Dario was bawling normally now. The nosebleed had already stopped, and he pulled at his mother’s shirt, trying to hide his face.

“It was a miracle,” his mother said reverently.

A small crowd was forming around them. (Was this Beatrice’s lot in this town?) A man said into his phone, “Yeah, send an ambulance.”

The driver covered her face with both hands. “I can’t bear this. I’m so sorry.”

Beatrice stood. She said the truest thing she knew. “Your son is just fine.”

That had been a miracle. Of course it had. It had taken no energy from her. It had been an unearned gift.

It had been a miracle, so the boy would be okay.

The fourth miracle.

Through the static zapping through her brain, she said, “I’m going to get some wet paper towels, okay?” She pointed at the public restroom. “I’ll be right back.”

“Wait—”

But she didn’t wait. She hurried toward the bathroom as if she had an important task to carry out, as if wet paper towels were exactly what was needed.

At the restroom’s door, she turned and looked at the knot of people clustered on the sidewalk.

Everyone was staring at Dario, and at his mother, who was just starting to shout at the driver.

So instead of going inside the restroom, Beatrice went around it.

On the other side, she could see the marina, just a block and a half away.

She ran.