Excerpt:

"Let go of the door, Frank. I'm going home," Molly said. She was frightened.

Frank wrenched the door from her grasp and opened it wide. "I want you to go with me to the dance tonight. It's over on Culver Road. You know the place. Great dance floor. The Rocket Men are playing."

"Frank, I already told you, I'm not interested in going out with you again. You'll just have to learn to take no for an answer."

Frank leaned into the car, his face close to Molly's. She could smell beer on his breath. He grabbed her behind the neck and pulled her to him, plunging his tongue into her mouth.

"Ah," Molly gagged. She bit down hard on his tongue.

Frank let go of her and clutched at his mouth. "You bitch! You bitch!" he screamed.

Molly tried to close the door, but Frank had his body jammed into the door opening. He grabbed her by the shoulder and squeezed hard. The world spun in front of her. She felt as if she was going to puke. She could hear him swearing at her, but it sounded like he was yelling at her down a long tunnel.

Then he was gone.

She sat- stunned, exhausted. And then the pain set in. Peter. She had to go back to Peter. He would help her. She struggled out of the car, her left shoulder sticking out crookedly like the broken wing of a bird. Molly feared the worst. She started down the sidewalk, praying that Peter would still be in the shop. People that met her on the street looked at her oddly. She didn't want their help. She didn't want the help of strangers. She wanted Peter.

She came up to the front door of the shop and immediately realized that pounding on the door to get Peter's attention would be useless. She looked inside, trying to see him, hoping he would still be there. But the lights were off.

The back of the shop! Surely he parked his car in the back of the shop. Maybe he hadn't left yet. She staggered down the alleyway that led to the back of his shop, every step she took, murder; the pain from each step pushing her to the breaking point.

And then she saw him. He was getting into his car. She yelled feebly, even though she knew he couldn't hear her. She put up her right arm and waved frantically. He saw her!

He came running toward her. She felt herself falling to the pavement, but Peter's strong arms caught her. "Peter," she sobbed. "Peter," she said again. "Ahhh, no!" In trying to hold her up, he, by necessity, had torqued her left arm and shoulder. She struggled to stand upright on her own; she didn't want him to carry her. Peter was making the sounds of sincere distress only a deaf man could make. She looked squarely at him and said as clearly as she could, "I am hurt. Help me. Let me walk by myself."

Peter understood. He took her by her right arm and led her into the back door of the shop. He guided her to the computer. It seemed forever before it booted up. Molly was sweating like a pig. Peter typed, "Tell me what's wrong. Don't type. Tell me clearly. Tell me." He pointed at his mouth.

Molly could barely breathe now. "A man . . . a man hurt me. My shoulder . . . he hurt my shoulder . . ."

"Your shoulder is dislocated," Peter rapidly typed. "I have to put it back into place. It will hurt when I do this. Do you want me to do it, or should I take you to the hospital?"

"Do it," Molly said. She gritted her teeth and closed her eyes.

Peter stood up and gripped her shoulder. She realized he knew exactly what he was doing as he manipulated her arm while pulling it gently behind her. She nearly passed out from the sudden pain that bolted through her, but then, unexpectedly, the sharp pains began to subside."

***

When Molly came to, she found herself lying on the couch in Peter's back room. Peter was hovering over her. He looked white with worry. She took his hand with her right hand. "Thank you," she said. She didn't have enough energy nor was she alert enough to sign.

Peter signed, "I put your shoulder back in the socket. You will have pain for some time. Do you want me to call someone?"

"My father."

"Tell me the number."

Molly signed the numbers. She was thankful that signing numbers was done with only one hand. Peter understood her perfectly.

She watched as Peter went to his telephone, set the receiver on his TTY, and dialed. When he was finished, he hung up the phone and came to Molly. He signed, "Your father is very upset. He said he would be here in fifteen minutes."

Peter went to the refrigerator and pulled open the freezer door. He pulled out all the ice trays and dumped the cubes into a plastic bag. Then he wrapped the bag with a thin towel. Molly winced with pain when he put the cold bag on her shoulder. "May I take care of you?" Peter signed.

Molly wasn't sure what Peter meant. "You are taking good care of me."

"May I take you home with me after your father comes? I will take good care of you."

Molly squeezed his wrist, then signed, "Yes. Please." She didn't know enough sign to elaborate on her thoughts, but she wanted him to take care of her.

Peter smiled. "Stay," he signed.

"Don't worry," Molly groaned, "I'm not going anywhere."

"Rest," Peter signed. "Rest until your father comes." He got up and went to the front door to wait for Molly's father.

Author BIO: Dick Claassen began putting his ideas to paper as a young child, but it wasn't until 1975 that he finally had his first major piece published. The feature magazine article written for The Iowan titled, Build Your Own Dulcimer, launched his free-lance career. It was only a few short years ago that Dick began to break away from factual writing in order to write novels. Dick wanted to accomplish two things in his novel writing. He wanted to write about aliens, and he wanted to write about them in a realistic way. Dick has done exactly that with a series of sci fi romance titles (too numerous to mention) that have proven to be top sellers. Dick studied writing at the University of Iowa Writer's Workshop.