He showed up.
Always.
I dialed him while running for the elevator.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“I just got a call from Noah.
Lena’s boyfriend hit him with a baseball bat.
I’m twenty minutes away.
Where are you?”
There was a tiny pause.
“I’m about fifteen minutes from your house,” Derek said.
“Do you want me to go by?”
“Go now.
I’m calling 911.”
“I’m already moving.”
Derek had fought in regional mixed martial arts years earlier, before a shoulder injury ended it.
But fighting wasn’t what made the change in his voice frightening.
Control was.
He knew when to move.
He knew when not to.
And he knew Noah was waiting.
I hit the parking garage and called 911.
I gave the dispatcher Noah’s name, Lena’s name, Travis’s first name, our address, exactly what Noah had told me, and the threat I had heard before the call ended.
“Is your child injured?”
“Yes.”
“Is the adult male still inside?”
“I believe so.”
She told me units were being sent.
Then I told her Derek was closer and already heading there.
“Tell him not to engage if he can avoid it,” she said.
I called Derek back immediately.
“Police are coming.
Don’t go looking for a fight.”
“I’m not,” he said.
“I’m going for Noah.”
Traffic barely moved.
Every red light felt like another locked door between me and my son.
Then Derek’s name flashed on my phone.
“I’m two blocks out,” he said.
“Stay on the line.”
A few seconds later, his voice dropped almost to a whisper.
“I see the house.”
His engine cut.
A truck door slammed through the phone.
Then I heard Derek’s footsteps start up my driveway.
“Front door’s open,” he said.
My grip tightened around the steering wheel.
“Can you see Noah?”
“No.”
Then Derek stopped walking.
For two seconds, neither of us said anything.
A child cried somewhere inside the house.
Derek’s voice changed instantly.
“That’s him.”
The dispatcher had told him not to engage unless he had to.
Derek knew that.
