Walking briskly by a park in my townhouse complex, shivering against the brutal Indiana winter wind, I heard a commotion and saw a crowd standing around a high diving board. At the top sat a toddler dangerously close to the edge.

Without thinking, I scaled the fence and ran towards them, my heart beating audibly in my ears. I headed for the ice cold steps and began my assent. Being terrified of heights, I had never climbed this diving board before, but now was not the time to give in to phobias.

Higher and higher I climbed, leaving fear and reason behind, until I reached the pinnacle of the steps.

"Hang on," I cried, reaching the platform and sitting carefully.

The boy looked at me, horror frozen on his young face, but made no sound. I carefully inched towards him, praying that he didn't let go and fall to certain death in the icy water below.

Finally, I reached the boy and pried his fingers loose from the board to lift him into my arms. Still, he didn't speak. I held him tightly as I rose to my feet and teetered back to the steps. One arm wrapped around the child, and the other gripping the ladder, I climbed cautiously down.

The crowd cheered when I reached the bottom, but quieted when a man pushed through, his eyes frantic, and his face a mask of horror.

"That's my son," he yelled. "What are you doing with him?"

"I just pulled him off the diving board," I began. "He climbed up..."

The man snatched the boy from my arms and headed home, ignoring my explanation. I looked at the man, and then at the crowd. I was just fourteen years old. Was I the only adult in the bunch?