I didn’t call back. That wasn’t fear—that was experience. I knew the difference between a dropped call and one that was deliberately cut. I’d seen too many people punished for reaching out for help. If she’d managed to call once, calling again could make things worse.
I moved without hesitation. Jeans. Boots. Keys. Wallet. The heavy flashlight from the utility drawer—the same one I’d carried through wrecks and roadside emergencies. Darkness hides things, and I wasn’t going in blind.
Four hundred miles disappears when your child asks you to save her.
I merged onto the interstate just after midnight, the road stretching black beneath a moonless sky. The white lines blurred as the miles vanished. I drove fast and didn’t slow down. My chest felt tight, like something was cinched around my ribs.
Between exits, memories surfaced—sharp and unwanted.
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