No answer.
I didn’t call again.
The first room I checked was Noah’s because it always was.
He was five years old, and he slept with a stuffed elephant named Captain tucked under one arm.
Whenever I came home late, I always went to his room before I changed clothes, showered, or ate anything.
Usually his blanket had worked its way down around his knees.
Usually one foot was sticking out.
Usually Captain was somewhere near his pillow.
I would pull the blanket back over him and stand there for a few seconds before leaving.
That morning, his bed was empty.
Everything inside me changed at once.
I’m a nurse.
I’ve seen what panic does to people when seconds matter.
It makes some people freeze.
It makes others run without thinking.
Training teaches you to move through the fear long enough to do the next necessary thing.
So I forced myself to move.
I checked the hallway.
Then I went straight toward the kitchen.
Noah was curled beneath the table on the cold tile.
His little jacket had been folded under his head like a pillow.
Captain was pressed against his chest.
He was still wearing the red dinosaur shirt I had left him in before work.
For a second, I just looked at him.
