I settle deeper into the seat with a sigh. Well, I’d check my phone in a minute. Right now, I just needed a breather, just a single moment to myself. It was going to be a long drive home with the late rush-hour traffic I knew was waiting.
Not a minute later, my phone begins to vibrate again. This time, I can tell it’s a call because my pocket doesn't stop buzzing. Even so, it's only when I feel my thigh pulse a third time that I finally move to check.
It’s probably Michael, offers a voice in my head. Nodding, I yawn. My brain feels like mush, like someone has run it through a blender.
“Shannon?” I murmur as I see the name and face I’ve spent all day dreaming about upon the screen. Why is Shannon calling? Doesn’t she know I’ll call her when I get home?
In an instant, the fog clears as the implication of what this means dawns. Frantically, I tap the screen and put the phone to my ear.
“Hello? Hello?” I say.
But it’s only silence that greets me.
I lower the phone and look at the screen, confirming to myself that I have indeed answered the call. My mind racin, I watch the seconds of our call time tick up.
“Hello? Hello?” I say again, the phone to my ear. The nothing that answers me this time leaves a bad feeling on my tongue like a rotten egg. “Hello? Shannon? Are you there?”
Oh no oh no oh no.
“Hello? Shannon? Shannon? Hello?”
Come on, baby. Say something. Say anything.
“H-hi, baby. How are you?”
The sound of Shannon’s voice stops the hammer pounding between my temples immediately. My relief is so overwhelming as I let out the lungful of air I’ve been holding that my lip starts to quiver.
But there’s something wrong. Even as the relief washes over me, I can tell. Something’s off. She doesn’t sound right. She sounds frightened, small, like she’s curled up under a blanket somewhere.
Which means she’s in danger…
“Baby? What’s wrong? What’s wrong, my love? Is everything okay?”
“I…” She starts to say something but trails off. In the background, thunder crashes; when it fades, the silence on the other end of the line is so total that for a second I think I’ve lost her.
“Baby? Baby, are you okay? Baby, answer me?”
“I…I need you.”
How pitiful she sounded! How forlorn! Where was she calling from? Was she still inside? An image of Shannon trapped and drowning is dancing before my eyes.
“You need me?”
“I need you, Kyle.”
“Don’t worry, baby. I’m on my way. You just hang tight, okay? I’ll be there soon.”
“Okay.” Her voice is flat, dejected, broken. She’s clearly exhausted beyond exhaustion.
“Where are you? Are you at home?”
“Yes.”
“Are you inside? Are you dry? Do you have fo—“
“Everything is okay at the moment, but you have to hurry, Kyle. The water—” Her words catch in her throat. “It’s rising fast. You just have to hurry.”
“I’ll hurry. I’ll be there in no time. Don’t you worry. Just hang tight; I’ll be there soon, okay? You’re going to be just fine. Just stay on the line with me and—“
Click.
“Hello? Shannon? Shannon? Dammit!”
I’m racing up the ramp onto the main highway that leads back home when the line goes dead. From the moment I'd heard Shannon’s first words, I’ve had the pedal pressed to the floorboard, my engine pushed to the limit. As I merge into traffic (thankfully it's not so bad), I try to reconnect with Shannon. Several times I call, but each time I'm greeted by the same, nerve-wracking nothingness. On what must be my hundredth call in under two minutes, an automated voice informs me politely that the line is currently out due to the storm. I'm to call emergency services if my business is urgent.
With this in mind, my next call is to Mike, who picks up on the third ring.
“Yello?”
“Mike. I need your boat.”
I must sound as deadly serious as I feel. When next Mike speaks, his words are measured and his tone is abnormally calm.
“Is it Shannon?”
Shannon,” I confirm.
“Twenty minutes,” is all he says in response. I’m weaving lane to lane, zipping around 18-wheelers with bored men at their wheels and family four-door sedans full of mothers and fathers and children on their way to dinner. Naturally, honks echo after me and I get more than one one-fingered wave, not that any of it registers.
“Twenty minutes?”
“Twenty minutes and I’ll have everything ready. Your truck have a hitch?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Now you call Tim and I’ll call Aaron. And Kyle?”
“Yeah?”
“Everything’s going to be just fine. I promise.”
***
After I get off the phone with Mike, it only takes another twenty minutes to get home. It seems God is on my side tonight. Not once do I see a cop, though I’m going well over the speed-limit, nor is there much traffic to slow me down, which is good since I’m not sure I’d let it.
Upon arriving at the apartment complex, I leave my truck hopped up on the curb closest to my apartment. To hell with it, I think as I bound up the stairs three steps at a time. Give me ten tickets for all I care.
Once I’m inside the apartment itself, I frantically gather anything and everything I could possibly need, though this list isn’t particularly long. Aside from a flashlight and some extra batteries, I grab a bit of rope I find in the laundry room, a few hundred in cash, a change of clothes, several towels, and a hunting knife. Five minutes after entering home, I’m ready to go. On my way out the door, I grab a box of granola bars from the pantry. They’re Michael’s, but considering the situation, I assume he won’t mind.
Mercifully, Mike lives quite close. It’s a ten-minute drive from curb to curb. As before, I drive as quickly as I can through the dark streets, running more than one traffic red light as I go. As I pull up to Mike's place, so too do the others, though unlike me they’re freshly-showered and aren’t weak with hunger. After we’d finished our second job of the day, I had let all three leave while I stuck around for the final inspection.
I hop out of my truck and with legs shaking make my way up Mike’s driveway. Without a word, Tim and Aaron get out of their cars and fall in line by my side. It’s clear from the grim smiles they flash me that they've already been apprised of the situation. As for Mike, he has his boat pulled out of the garage and is rummaging through one of many cardboard boxes stacked in the third car port. Already there’s quite a collection of supplies piled in the bottom of the boat—blankets and towels and rope and lifejackets and so on.
“Ah-ha!” Mike declares as he pulls a black, plastic case from the box at his feet. He turns to us and holds up his prize triumphantly. “Flare gun,” he says by way of greeting.
As we set to checking the rest of the things we’ll need for what I’ve begun to consider our rescue mission, the boys try their best to appear cheery and calm. Every time my gaze meets one of theirs, Tim or Mike or Aaron smiles happily, their eyes beaming with unspoken reassurances. It’s okay, Kyle, I can feel them thinking. It’s going to be okay