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One minute and twenty seconds.
One minute and ten seconds.
One minute.
The Wi-Fi isn’t strong and I worry it will fail, that I’ll lose the connection before the money can send. If that happens, there isn’t time to try again.
Regret fills me.
I shouldn’t have let her go to school today.
I should have kept her home.
I shouldn’t have gotten involved with Nat in the first place. I shouldn’t have put her safety before Sienna’s.
This is my fault. It’s my fault this is happening.
I move around the store with my phone in hand, everyone backing away, giving me a wide berth, trying to find a spot with better Wi-Fi, and eventually I do. Eventually the wire transfer goes through.
I fall to my knees, sobbing.
The voices return. Ma’am. Is everything okay? What can we do? I’ve called the police. They’re on their way. Do you need something? Water? Someone get her a glass of water. Give her room. Ma’am.
I can’t respond. I’m in my own head thinking how this isn’t the end of it. I don’t know what he’ll do now that he has his money. Will he let Sienna go? Or will he keep her?
Only then do I think to check the location sharing app to see where he has Sienna.
I hold my breath as the app loads. I expect it will tell me she’s down some alley or moving seventy miles per hour on the expressway. I wait in fear because if he took her this morning as she was on her way to school, she could be in Wisconsin or Indiana by now. Michigan even.
But that’s not where the app says she is.
Sienna, it says, is at school.
My mind spins. I don’t understand. I can’t make sense of it. It isn’t just that Sienna’s phone is at school because the call came from her phone. I heard her voice in the background. No, the app is wrong. It hasn’t updated or my connection inside this store is slow. I click on the button for it to refresh and then watch as two little purple arrows chase each other around and around the screen, updating, and when they come to rest, the words at the top read: Last updated now.
According to this app, Sienna has been at school since 8:02 this morning. According to the app, once she arrived at school this morning, she never left. She’s been there the whole time.
He has her right there on school grounds.
I press myself to standing. I run outside to hail a cab while calling 911. When the dispatcher answers, I say, “Someone has my daughter,” and then I tell him what happened and what I know, and the dispatcher says that he will send police to the building. He asks questions about Sienna, like for a physical description. He wants me to stay on the line with him, but I tell him I can’t. “Please,” I beg. “Tell them to hurry.”
As the cab pulls away from the curb, I hang up and call Sienna’s school. An automated calling system answers and I have to wait to press nine to be connected to the school secretary. It’s torture. She drones the name of the high school when she answers. I cut her abruptly off.
“I’m calling about my daughter. Sienna Long. Is she there?” I say. “I need to speak to her.” It’s not that I expect Sienna to just be back in class now as if nothing has happened. But I don’t know what else to say.
The woman puts me on hold. Time becomes eternal.
I consider every worst-case scenario in this moment. Sienna is being held in a car or a van in the school parking lot. She’s locked inside the custodian closet or a mechanical room or some other restricted place where students aren’t allowed to go. She’s hurt. She’s dead or dying as I wait on hold for the secretary to get back to me.
I can’t stand it. I end the call and call immediately back, wait for the automated calling system to answer and then press nine again. When the secretary answers, droning the name of the school, words rush out of me. “This is Meghan Michaels again calling about my daughter, Sienna. You had me on hold. Please,” I say, fighting tears, “I need to speak to my daughter.”
In the next moment my fears are confirmed.
“Yes, Ms. Michaels. Sorry it took a minute. I called down to her class. I spoke to Mr. Pruitt, but he said that Sienna didn’t show up for third period. Have you tried calling on her cell?” she asks, as I press my fingers to my mouth, nodding because I don’t have it in me to speak.
“Ms. Michaels? Are you still there? Ms. Michaels?”
“Yes,” I breathe, and then I pull the phone away from my ear and press end.
