I took off his mitts before we stepped into the elevator.
The building is old. A beautiful brick building about a hundred years old. The elevator is old too. It looks like it was installed in the 1950s. I have often wondered if a metal lift used to be there before.
At the first floor the doors slowly slid open. Intrigued, the boy placed his hand against the opening door. Before I could react, before I could grab his hand the door had opened all the way and his hand had been pulled between the wall and the open elevator door. For a moment there was silence. Then the boy started screaming. The husband and I started yelling.
I tried to pull his hand free but it was stuck. I tried to pull the heavy metal doors closed but they wouldn't move. Standing next to the elevator panel, the husband frantically pounded the ground floor button in the hopes that the door would close. It is an old elevator. There was an open door button but no close door button.
Finally the door closed. I grabbed the boy in my arms. Somehow we all got off the elevator. Our friend and her daughter were there in the hallway and ushered us back to her apartment. I held him against me as I checked his left hand.
The middle and index fingers were dented from being stuck. Parts of the fingers were purple from the bruises and red from the blood. The skin was torn up. The husband and I took turns holding him as he cried.
Eventually he was comforted. He was fine.