Derek answered on the first ring.
“What’s up?”
“Noah called me,” I said.
The elevator doors opened, and I ran into the parking garage.
My shoes slapped the concrete hard enough to echo.
“He said Travis hit him with a baseball bat. Lena isn’t home. I’m twenty minutes out. Where are you?”
There was one second of silence.
Then Derek’s voice changed.
Derek had always been the calm one in emergencies.
When we were kids and I fell out of an oak tree, he was the one who ran for our mother without crying.
When my tire blew out on the interstate years later, he showed up with a jack, a flashlight, and a thermos of coffee before I had finished apologizing.
He had fought in regional MMA shows in his twenties, but the fights were not what made him dangerous.
What made Derek dangerous was that he did not need to perform anger.
He got quiet.
“I’m maybe fifteen minutes from Lena’s place,” he said.
“Go now.”
“You calling 911?”
“Right now.”
“I’m moving.”
He hung up before I could say anything else.
By 1:20 p.m., I was in my car with one phone connected to emergency dispatch and the other line waiting for Derek to call back.
I gave the dispatcher everything.
Noah’s full name.
His age.
Lena’s address.
The fact that Travis was an adult male.
The fact that a baseball bat was involved.
The fact that my son said he had been threatened if he cried.
The dispatcher kept her voice steady.
“Is the child breathing?”
“He was talking less than a minute ago,” I said. “Then the man took the phone.”
“Are you currently at the location?”
“No. I’m driving there. My brother is closer.”
“Sir, do not enter the residence if the suspect is armed. Officers are being dispatched.”
I heard the words.
I even understood why she had to say them.
