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"No." Serena replied firmly. Without warning, his fingers gripped the waist of her underwear and tore them down. She twisted round to confront him, reaching down to grasp her panties from her knees and as she did his hand shot out, thrusting between her legs. Serena bucked away, inadvertently pushing her ass straight into the hand that came from behind.She turned frantically, bending herself away from both men. Her panties were clawed, stretched taut in her bid to escape, and then tore free of one of her legs. Serena spun toward the door, saw her opportunity for escape and ran. In a flying rugby-style tackle she fell to the floor. He covered her legs with his body, his face pressed against the cheeks of her ass, his breath hot and moist as he climbed slowly up her torso.He pinned her down with his weight, legs straddling hers as he raised his hips and wrestled his trousers down. She felt his hardness slap against her buttocks at its moment of freedom and knew with dread what fate. He was the furthest officer away, more of an observer. Backup. But I doubt he seriously considered it. The kid was surrounded by armed uniforms.It was just one of those flukes of nature, an oddity, that Daddy was hit.At around 6 that evening they wheeled Daddy past us in the hall to one of those elevators large enough to accommodate a hospital bed. Out of the Operating Room after more than 10 hours.He looked ... deflated. Smaller, diminished. I ignored the tubes -- breathing, IV -- to focus on him. His eyes were closed, his skin ashen. His face less determined.My mother sobbed quietly. Vanessa rocked her.Two and a half days later, Thursday, Dr. Millstein told me, “He’s got a chance, Winter. Better than fifty-fifty.”When I wasn’t at St. Luke’s I was in bed. Curled into a defensive ball. My mind was numb and I didn’t care. I sat up a couple of times and let Vanessa feed me spoonfuls of soup that I didn’t taste. She helped me into the bathroom two or three times. It barely.
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