Then I heard the scraping of a canvas bag being dragged across the hallway floor.
He stopped in front of us and, in a voice that was almost soft, almost kind, almost unrecognizable, he whispered:
-Bye bye.
The front door opened.
A gust of cold air came in.
Then silence.
I waited several seconds, counting each heartbeat as if the number could hold me to life.
Then I barely moved my lips.
—Don’t move yet…
A second later I felt Tommy’s fingers tremble against mine.
He was still awake.
The relief almost broke me.
But she couldn’t cry, she couldn’t hug him, she couldn’t let go of anything yet, because fear was still lurking inside the house like a crouching animal.
With unbearable slowness, I took the cell phone out of my back pocket.
The screen illuminated my face and I had to turn the brightness down to the minimum.
There was no signal in the dining room.
I dragged myself down the corridor, feeling clumsy, breathing heavy, my throat closed from the effort of staying conscious while panic pounded inside like a second illness.
Tommy followed me as best he could.
Pale.
Sweaty.
Scared.
Too quiet for a nine-year-old.
A signal bar appeared on the wall of the hallway.
I dialed 911.
The call was cut off.
I tried again.
Nothing.
He got in on the third try.
The operator answered, and my voice came out broken, low, almost alien, but enough to push the truth to the other side.
—My husband hurt us. My son and I are still alive. We need help. Fast.
The operator’s voice changed instantly.
He asked me for the address.
