Mike took his paddle and slapped it onto the water, laughing as drops splattered into my face. 

“Stop!” I hissed.  

Mike grimaced. “You need to loosen up.” 

We were sitting in the middle of Cobb’s lake, a small body of water not far from his home. It was early. Mom would never want me out here by myself, but she didn’t have to know. Mike and I were good at keeping secrets. 

“Are you nervous for sixth grade?” I asked. Tess, my sister, told me that in sixth grade, the teachers all beat you with paddles if you’re late to class. I was, frankly, terrified, but I didn’t want to tell Mike. I wanted to know if he was scared, too. 

“Nah,” he said, smiling. “My bro told me that the girls get really hot in middle school. He told me I could start lifting weights and stuff. Then I can date an eighth grade girl. How sweet would that be?” 

I stared at him. “Hot?” 

“Yeah,” he said. “Hot. Like, they look good.” 

Rolling my eyes, I stared at my fishing pole, waiting for something to bite. If Tess was any indication of what older girls looked like, I wasn’t excited. Her stringy black hair pooled around her shoulders, and pimples dotted her flushed cheeks. Besides, Mike and I were the well-known losers of the Bakersville community. We were more likely to get locked in the bathroom in our underwear than have a girl speak to us. 

“I’m not scared either,” I told him. 

Around us, birds chirped. The trees reflected in the still water, their leaves slightly distorted. The forest was dotted with color. It would be fall soon, though a thick heat hung in the air that day.  

Cobb’s lake made me forget Mom and Dad and the aching in my arms, at least for a moment. Mike, though skinny as a rail, had somehow managed to paddle here by himself on his Mom’s boat. Maybe he could get stronger and cooler. I hoped he wouldn’t stop being friends with me. 

A small fish popped its mouth out of the water, munching on a crumb. “Hey!” Mike said. “Let’s get him!” 

I eagerly cast out my line, waiting. We sat a while more, the fish not biting. My mind wandered back to last night. Mom and Dad standing behind me, watching as tears rolled down my cheeks. I don’t want to, I had told them. I can’t heal her. But Dad reminded me that I was a miracle, that this was my obligation. God, I hated that word. Then he pushed me forward. She had torn something in her shoulder. I still couldn’t lift my left arm all the way. 

“Adam?” Mike hissed. 

“What?” 

“Jeez, are you asleep or something? That’s the third time I’ve called your name.” 

“Oh.” I felt my cheeks go hot. “Uh, sorry.” 

“You wanna get going? I’m starving.” 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine.”  

Mike smiled, and we switched places. He had to sit in the front so he could paddle. I tried to help, but Mike did most of the work. He didn’t complain, which still amazes me. Mike had a way of knowing, even if I didn’t say a word. 

We walked home through the neighborhood, passing the eccentric old lady who planted way too many flowers, the people with the giant dog, and even our friend Jimmy’s house. He wasn’t home. When we passed the preacher’s house, there was an ambulance in their driveway. There was a pang in my head, right between my eyes. Crap, I thought. 

“Maybe the old man finally croaked,” Mike whispered. 

“Mike!” I hissed. 

“I’m just saying. That guy must be 102. It’s a miracle he has kids. It’s a miracle he’s even alive.” 

“Mike!” I hissed again. 

“Fine, fine.” 

We kept walking, and the pain between my eyes subsided. Surely it was nothing. An accident, probably. Maybe Sara fell and hit her head. I was sure she would be home later that day.  

Mike’s house was a few doors down. The neighborhood, it seemed, was waking up. Lights were flashing on, and a few people had settled on their front porches. 

“See ya, bud,” Mike cried when he got home. 

“See ya.” 

I didn’t want to go home yet. The sun was just settling into the morning sky. Maybe Aunt Helen would be home. I could stay with her for a while and not worry about seeing Mom and Dad until the evening.

I am eight and Sara is five. We are in a field, and the sun is setting around us. Its rays paint the sky red and gold and orange. Stalks of wheat stand tall as their tips glow in the evening light.  

Gripping my hand, Sara tells me we have to spin in a circle. All I can see is her fire red hair and those fierce green eyes. I take her hands in mine. They are clammy and warm. Suddenly she is spinning and laughing, her head thrown back with joy. 

At first I am afraid of the way my feet clumsily fall over each other. My eyes desperately searching for a vantage point as Sara spins fearlessly. The colors all fade. My stomach flips. I am free. Soon I am laughing too. 

Then Sara falls, shrieking. Suddenly she is sitting on the ground, grabbing her ankle. The wheat sways around her. Tears flow from her large green eyes. 

“Adam,” she whispers, her lip shaking. “Help.” 

It will hurt, the voice in my head tells me. Don’t. But suddenly I am crouching next to her, my hands nervously shaking, carefully examining her mangled ankle. 

God blessed this boy, I hear my father say. 

Closing my eyes, I breathe in and out, savoring the warm air and painted sky and Sara’s green eyes, even if they are filled with tears. I place my hands on her ankle. Sara winces. 

“What are you doing, Adam?” 

You are our miracle, I hear mama say. 

I tell her to be still. Wrapping my hands around her ankle, I tell her it will all be over soon. 

Then I feel the break, so sharp in my own left ankle that I nearly start crying. But pain is not new to me. I bite my lip, waiting for it to pass. It will pass soon, but not yet. The throbbing grows until I know that all of her pain is mine. Sara stops whimpering and slowly sits up, staring at her ankle in amazement. 

“You fixed it, Adam!” she cries, and her own joy makes my pain lessen. Standing up, she hops from foot to foot, her eyes wide with shock. “I love you!” she cries. “I love you, Adam!” 

I tell her I love her too. I tell her we have to go. Sara protests, but I am older. Soon she listens without complaint. I walk home slowly, each step sending pain up my leg. Sara tells me to hurry up, and I tell her I’m just tired. I don’t want her to know that I am hurt. 

The first time it happened, I was three. I remember is Tess’ pink dress and the way my body ached for days. Dad was there, holding Tess against him. “It’s okay, honey,” I remember him whispering. 

Her hamster, Peggy, fell out of her cage, her small body crumpling against the hard floor. I remember the way my sister cried, cradling Peggy in her arms. I remember taking her hamster into my hands and feeling the tiny broken bones. They pushed themselves inside of me before I knew what was happening. 

Peggy quickly scampered back to life, running up my arm. The ache in my bones was intense. “You fixed him, Adam!” Tess cried, throwing her arms around me. 

Dad picked me up and held me, his eyes wide. “What did you do?” 

“I dunno.” I was starting to feel like I was going to throw up. Mom would later cradle me against her, putting warm wash cloths on my aching muscles. They didn’t believe in doctors. God heals those who follow Him. 

After that, my memory is foggy. My only other clear memory of the incident came later that day, when Mom told me I was a miracle.