Racing the Clock
The elevator felt like it took forever.
The moment the doors opened, I sprinted through the parking garage while dialing emergency services. My dress shoes slapped against the concrete as I explained everything to the dispatcher.
Yes, my son was in danger.
Yes, an adult man had hurt him.
No, I couldn’t wait.
My brother was already on his way.
Traffic crawled through the financial district. Every red light felt like a wall between me and my child. I leaned on the horn and squeezed past a delivery truck, barely thinking about anything except getting home.
Then my phone rang again.
Marcus.
“I’m two blocks away,” he said. “Stay on the line.”
“Just go,” I told him.
