They walked along, exchanging childish insults, and generally having a good time. Jack had just called her "Scrub Brush" as a means to insult her hair. He looked back, grinning to gauge her reaction. Brooke wasn't moving. She stood there, her eyes wide, and her breath shallow. He closed the distance between them, and wrapped his arms around her. "Brooke, I don't know what's wrong, but it will be okay." He ran his fingers through her hair gently. "You will be okay." He just hoped it was true.
Brooke stood stiffly in his arms, eyes locked on the park in front of her. The swings drifting in the wind, empty, waiting for someone to play. Autumn leaves swirled in tufts of color down the fence and her fingers tightened impossibly in Jack’s coat. Her throat felt like it was imploding in on itself. She couldn’t breathe.
But Jack was holding her. He wasn’t going to let go. He told her she’d be fine and Brooke struggled to believe him. Finally, with her knuckles white as she clung to him and her body shaking in his arms, she managed to gasp out: “Get me out of here, Jack.”Â
