It is true that my son ran across a length of bleachers, his denim jacket, unbuttoned, lifting out behind elbows as he flew down the steps two or three yards to our right, racing toward his father and me. It is true the arena was cold, loud with light and color, the crowd moving behind us to and from the concession stand as we stood near the half boards of the hockey rink, near the other moms to my left. It is true that my husband, to my right, was a little closer to our son as he approached. But it is also true that a scattering of freckles and baby blue eyes turning (from me?) up to his dad were only partially blocked by my husband's body as I was turning back to our ladies' conversation. It is true I turned back again (was it one second? two?) to hear my husband shout through the din "Can you breathe?" only then to see the pleading look, the slow shake of head, to see my husband grab him turn him bend with arms around him hard and fast pull in— once? twice? It is true I saw something black rise from my husband's back, like years of his life— or death— as the Fireball lodged in our son's throat flew out. It is true all of us were shaken, but my husband saved him. Our son was okay. Nearly twenty years later, I think about it, what I didn't see, and how I turned away.