One week later, a sharp knock echoed through my apartment. I opened the door to find a man in a crisp suit handing me a thick manila envelope. I ripped it open, thinking perhaps the parents had sent a thank you letter, maybe even a reward. Instead, I saw the stark, official heading of lawsuit papers.
Apparently, the impact from me catching the child had broken both of his arms and legs. He was alive but in critical condition, and his parents, the same people who had hailed me as a hero, were now suing me for two million dollars. The charges listed were “Criminal Child Endangerment” and “Reckless Rescue Attempt.” If I lost, I was looking at five to ten years in prison.
I called the parents fifteen times, but each call went straight to voicemail. In a state of disbelief, I drove to their apartment building. The father, Mr. Peterson, opened the door. His face, once etched with gratitude, was now contorted in a mask of rage
