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Throat tight, all I can do is nod.
Mom answers on the third ring, and I quickly and efficiently as I can explain the little bit I know—that Waylon’s hurt, and he’s on his way by ambulance, Izzy’s with him, and I need her to fix him.
“Mason…”
“Mom,” I choke out. “Please.”
“You know I’ll do everything I can. I’m on a different floor tonight, but I’ll see what I can do.”
“Izzy’s by herself.”
“I’ll find her,” she says strongly. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I have news.”
“Ray and Eva?—”
“I’ll call them.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me.
We hang up, and I squeeze the phone in my hand, my heart pumping a mile a minute.
I can barely breathe. All I want is to get down to the hospital and be with Izzy, wait for news, see with my own two eyes that Waylon’s okay…because he has to be okay.
But I don’t have a car. Izzy’s the only one of us with a car.
Well, her and?—
“Jeremy,” I breathe.
Phoebe tilts her head back where she rests it against my chest, peering up at me through a rat’s nest of dirty blonde hair, several shades darker than it was when she first came to live with us.
I feel her eyes on me as I pull up his contact and hit call and lift it to my ear. I hold my breath, counting each ring, praying he answers.
Finally, the line clicks.
“I’m on my way,” he says before I can say anything at all.
And the air rushes out of me with a broken sound not unlike a sob.
How…
But then I realize?—
Izzy must’ve called him.
I hunch over, wrapping an arm around my sister, face buried in her hair, eyes squeezed shut as I will myself to hold it together. I can’t fall apart. Not now, not yet. Not in front of Phoebe.
In my ear, Jeremy’s reminding me to breathe, and that it will be okay, and he’s coming. He’s on his way. He’ll be here in only a few short minutes.
He stays on the phone, talking to me, and I hear tires rolling over gravel just as he hangs up.
Phoebe scrambles off my lap, and I tell her to grab her coat. She rushes upstairs as I grab my shoes from the closet by the door, slipping them on, quickly tying the laces.
And then I’m out the door, the screen door slamming shut behind me, and I’m jogging down the steps just as Jeremy’s black Nissan skids to a stop, kicking up gravel. The car’s still running when he throws open the driver door, and climbs out.
“Is Phoebe—oomph.”
He stumbles back when I crash into him, throwing my arms around him in a crushing bear hug.
