One of my students, a two-year-old, is accidentally locked in his mom’s mini-van with the windows rolled up. It is 80 degrees outside and probably twice that hot inside the car. It was his first day of class. His older sister is four and took Creative Movement with me. This is the studio in Madrona located along side the gorgeous Lake Washington. Half the joy of teaching at this studio is the view, the water lapping up against the concrete wall as I walk to the old boat house that’s been converted into a studio.

The van is parked facing the water and people are passing by and offering to help. The mother is frantically in control, her voice a thin tense line as she shouts at her son to press the unlock button. She desperately tries to coach him while waiting for her husband to bring keys to her vehicle. A small crowd gathers. The four-year-old sister spots me and runs up to the bench where I had innocently sat down to have some lunch–an ideal spot looking out over the water. I realize I need to take the other child off the mother’s hands and keep her calm in time of crisis. We sit side by side on the park bench, her feet dangling, someone has given her an apple. An old man dragging a plastic raft has stopped and suggested we call the police. It’s been 15 minutes since the accidental locking of the car. The little boy is now sweating. He’s holding a small stuffed animal, strapped firmly in his car seat, a look of blank wonder on his face. It is a game? Is he in trouble? He can’t push the lock down, his fingers are too weak.

A man in his forties, a young Madrona Mom, an adult student on her way to Open Ballet, this is just a small sampling of the small crowd. Some tap on the window at the little boy, others try and calm the mother, finally someone pulls out a cellphone and calls the police. “He’s sweating,” the dispatcher is told. A police car doesn’t come fast enough; another five minutes past by. The old man with the inflatable raft takes a sweatshirt and lines the passenger door with it. Then he expertly punches the window until the glass shatters with a resounding pop. The little boy inside the car screams and the mother dives in. She pulls him out of his car seat and runs, runs to the concrete wall that protects Lake Washington from the parking lot. She jumps in, with her clothes on, the water shallow reaching her waist. Her son is placed on the concrete lip and she begins splashing him with murky lake water to cool him off. People gather around with bottles of water, hands dip into the lake, voices are fast and firm. The little boy howls, his sister looks at me with big eyes. I had been sharing my almonds with her–nervous that she might have a nut allergy, (don’t all kids have one?) even though she claimed not to. “Why is he crying?” she asked. “Sometimes when you’re finally safe you can allow yourself to feel scared,” I explained. We had been engaged in several deep conversations about accidents, locking the car, the police, how strangers can help you in times of need. In her lap she held a second apple, “This one I’m saving for my brother.”