“Dad… please! Come get me—my husband, he…”
Emily’s voice didn’t just crack; it shattered, a fragile porcelain vessel dropped on concrete. Then, the line went dead.
For a heartbeat that felt like an hour, I sat frozen in the cab of my truck, the phone pressed so hard against my ear that plastic bit into cartilage. I was listening to the emptiness, the terrifying, static-filled void where my daughter’s voice had been seconds ago. I tried calling back—once, twice. Straight to voicemail. A robotic female voice telling me the subscriber was unavailable.
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