I found Eliyahu Hanavi in line at the aquarium

A series of unexpected medical issues and life challenges this year had led me to emotional exhaustion by the time my husband floated the idea that our family could benefit from a brief change of scenery. The next thing I knew, we’d decided to spend winter break in Arizona.

I was hesitant to go, worried that we couldn’t quite escape our woes via airplane, but my husband convinced me that it would do us all good.

By the time I found myself gazing upon rows of gorgeous cacti as we left the Phoenix airport, I’d signed on to his theory. The feel of sun on our skin, the happy smiles on our children’s faces as they tossed me the winter coats they’d needed just hours before — I was convinced our streak of tzaros was finally behind us.

We popped by some grocery stores; arrived at our vacation home rental in a car filled to the brim with suitcases, grocery purchases, and positive energy; and hopped into the private pool that greeted us in the yard. After swimming enough to work up an appetite, we headed out to dinner at a local restaurant. Last year, we’d made the rookie mistake of just walking into a local restaurant during “yeshivah week” and expecting to find an open table; this year, we’d learned from our experience and made the reservation a week prior.

We quickly learned that getting a reservation is only half the dining-during-peak-time battle. When we arrived, the neat “reserved” sign beckoned to us from a gleaming table. But we soon discovered it would take 15 minutes to get menus, another 15 minutes to get the attention of any wait staff, another 15 minutes to order, and at least another 30 minutes to get our food.

An hour in, my exhausted children had officially lost it. My four-year-old was done with being stuck in a booth. Trying to get him to sit still, we ordered some soup for him, since we knew it could be brought out quickly. Our perceived clever solution turned out to be a big, boiling mistake. The next thing we knew, he squirmed a little too vigorously, an errant limb landed at the wrong angle, and he was covered in hot soup.

The packed room fell silent, save for my son’s screams. Suddenly, no one cared which table got its sesame chicken order first. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath as I grabbed two pitchers full of ice water, yelled for my husband to carry my son outside, and then poured the water on him, soaking him from top to bottom.

Every account, tip, and article I’d ever heard or read about burns all jumbled together. That all-too-familiar feeling of panic set in. Was I supposed to use ice, or only cold water? Should I remove his clothing so that I could place cool materials directly on the wound, or keep a barrier between them so as to not freeze the skin? Was only welting a worrisome sign, or was redness also alarming? Was he now red from heat or from the pitcher full of ice?

Many restaurant patrons followed us outside, calling out their own conflicting opinions, as I tried to comfort my son and process what had just happened. It was then that a malach stepped out from the crowd.

“Call 911!” he directed one bystander. “Get a bucket of ice water and clean towels from a busboy!” he told another. “You, go straight to the kitchen!” he directed a third. “Tell them to drop whatever they’re doing and slice raw potatoes to put on this boy’s skin.”