My fingers were stiff as I turned the heavy dial, letting it spin back slowly after each number.
“Is the man going to come here?” Euan asked.
“No,” I said. “Nobody is going to take you tonight.”
I held the receiver tight against my cheek, my eyes fixed on the faded blue rocket on his chest.
The line clicked three times, the sound of the old county switching station routing the call through the dark.
“Oakridge emergency,” a woman’s voice said through the static. “State your emergency.”
I looked at my son, who was pulling at his collar again, his small fingers pale in the kitchen light.
“This is Martha Vance,” I said, my voice steadying as I looked at the dirt on his cheek. “I need Paul.”
“Martha?” the operator asked, her tone shifting. “Is everything alright out there?”
“My son is sitting at my kitchen table,” I said.
The line went quiet for three long seconds, the only sound the faint hiss of the long-distance wires.
