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I yelled. I screamed. Nothing worked. The car was coming closer. But in one final attempt, I jumped. I ran towards her and jumped to push her out of the way. But I had failed. I jumped through her and landed hard on the ground. No one saw me. Nobody had paid attention to the little girl sitting and playing in the grass. And almost like a bolt of lighting, the car sped by, hitting the girl. As it passed, I noticed a familiar smell. But I couldn’t put my finger on it. And as the car sped away, I felt someone else run through me and to the little girl. It was her mother. As I came closer, I felt the smell getting stronger. Gunpowder! The man was shot and in no control of his car! And, as I approached the mother, I set my hand on her shoulder, telling her that I would take care of her. She had a puzzled look on her face. And as I took the girls hand, we walked away. I know this because I was that man who was shot that day, and I will always regret running that little girl over.

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