It was a great Sunday afternoon. We were all playing outside; the weather was awesome. The kids had just finished taking turns rolling down the hill in an old plastic wagon, and it was time to go inside for baths. I walked to the trash barrel to throw away the debris created by two kids and a couple of popsicles. I turned around, and he was gone. GONE. I immediately circled the house and scanned the field next to our house. Jerry took the front of the house. No Wes. At that point, something inside me snapped. I just knew I wouldn't get divine intervention twice. I felt like I had wasted my second chance. Externally, I was calling 911 (again); internally, I was praying (again).
So, then, Jerry was in his truck, checking the canal side, then circling the neighborhood. At some point someone (me?) called neighbors down the street to walk in our direction to see if they could see Wes. I'm sketchy on the details. Grace was inside. The dispatcher was counseling me to look under beds and in closets. My neighbors were all out looking. I was still on the phone with the 911 dispatcher and the dispatcher next to her got a call. Someone found a little blonde boy on Alabama Road. I must have asked 17 times if he was Ok. He was.
Five minutes later, a non-phased, happy little boy is delivered to my arms. "Mom!" he yells, "I rode in a police car!"
He reported he went for a run. I had been taking him with me on runs; he would follow behind on his John Deer PowerWheel. The cop suggested that was probably not a good idea. I concur.
