Protective Instincts. Shirlee McCoy

like four years ago.

      Just like the day she’d lost everything.

      Andrew reached into his pocket and pulled out a camera. He scrolled through a couple of photos and frowned. “Here it is.”

      She took the camera, her hands steady despite the fact that her entire body seemed to be shaking. The image on the screen was clear. Wet ground, bright-colored leaves strewn around. That wasn’t the focus of the picture, though. A stuffed dog was. Fluffy and blue. About twelve inches high. Muddy and wet, but obviously well loved by a child, its ears ratty, its fur threadbare in a few places. She knew that if she could lift the dog out of the camera and study it closely, she’d be able to see that one eye was missing and that its tail had almost no fur. She thought that if she could hold it close to her nose, she’d still be able to smell baby powder and shampoo on it.

      Her eyes burned, her chest so tight and heavy she didn’t think she’d ever breathe again.

      “It looks like the dog I gave Joseph that day we all went to the county fair together. Remember?” Andrew prodded.

      Remember?

      She couldn’t forget. Not any second of any minute of the short time she’d had with her son. If she let herself, she’d lie in bed at night, remembering his laughter, his chubby toddler belly and happy blue eyes.

      She never let herself.

      And she didn’t want this...reminder.

      She thrust the camera back into Andrew’s hands and turned on her heels, walking away from him and from Jackson. Walking past the SUV and Stella, leaving Samuel right where he was. Walking faster and faster until her feet were flying and her breath was heaving, and she was running so fast her legs ached and her lungs hurt, and the tears were streaming down her face.

      And still, she couldn’t outrun her sorrow.