of the city but that you’re out past midnight with a gorgeous blonde grinning at you and holding your hand and guys with spiked hair and uncaring eyes pointing guns at you. This isn’t your life.
There’s no sidewalk on this street. A big two-story building next to you looks black and deathly empty. The closest streetlight is a block away. There’s no sign of any cars or any life. Across from you stands the remains of a building that looks half gone.
You start to walk down the street, half hoping to see a car coming, half hoping the street stays this deserted.
Sometimes when you take out Jack the Lhasa Apso one last time to do his nightly duty, you can look up at the stars from your modest-sized backyard in the suburb of Deerfield. It’s an expensive house and lot, and it’s small moments like this that you pay for. But now, walking on this side street, you look up and see only grayish black. No stars, nothing.
You check your phone again and see that you missed a call. A symbol says that you have voice mail. You check it and hear Lisa’s voice.
“Hey—where are you? You’re not going to believe what happened before bedtime. Jack wallowed in crap again, and I had to clean him up. I love how he only does this when you’re out of town. I swear. Call me if you can. Sorry to hear about the dinner. Peyton played with his mac and cheese at my parents’. Olivia didn’t eat anything. Typical dinner. Love you.”
Lisa’s voice sounds so out of place here and now. You miss her. You miss the normalcy of seeing her. You miss resting by her right now.
Because you’re scared
.
You tell yourself you’re not scared, but you are. It’s just coming over you right now, the wave of fear that should have covered you in the car.
You’ve got a wife and two children
.
You know that and you always know that. You leave thehouse and go to bed thinking that. It’s branded on your heart and soul. But sometimes—sometimes—you want to forget. You want to simply have a drink and a good time and not worry so much. You don’t want so much weighing you down.
Too late
.
You wonder what you were thinking. But you know. You know what you were thinking the moment you dialed those numbers. There was a slight hope, a slight tease. You thought maybe, perhaps, possibly
just maybe
and wanted to see where the night took you.
Atmosphere.
345.
That’s where it took you.
And now here, wherever here is.
Good job, Mike
.
You delete Lisa’s voice mail and notice there’s another.
You listen to the second voice mail and stop when Jasmine’s erratic voice comes on the line.
“My God, Mike, I can’t—you gotta help me. I don’t know—I’m sorry—I don’t know who else to—I’m at Exit, this club—please come—”
And then nothing.
You hear muffled noise in the background—a street or a public place or something like that.
The phone number is unlisted. You can’t redial.
You remember that her license is still in your pocket.
I can at least go and see if she’s back home by now
.
You just had a gun pointed at you, waved in your face, brushed up against your cheek.
Those guys weren’t kidding.
They dropped you off in the middle of nowhere. You should be glad you’re alive.
Enough’s enough, Mike
.
But you’re not tired and you’re worried about Jasmine. She might be a flirt and frivolous and flippant but she’s still a young woman and you don’t want to see her hurt.
Jasmine’s going to be fine. She’ll be okay. You don’t need to protect her
.
But maybe she wanted and needed protection. Maybe she’s reaching out for someone to save her.
And maybe, just maybe, that someone is you.
Y OUR HEAD HURTS . B URNS . S TINGS .
The adrenaline is slowing down but you still hurt.
You look around and keep walking.
Walk. Step. Step.
You have no idea where you are and you’re a little afraid.
A little?
Maybe a lot.
You check your phone. Who can you call? The cops?
Call them
.
To say what? To do
There’s no sidewalk on this street. A big two-story building next to you looks black and deathly empty. The closest streetlight is a block away. There’s no sign of any cars or any life. Across from you stands the remains of a building that looks half gone.
You start to walk down the street, half hoping to see a car coming, half hoping the street stays this deserted.
Sometimes when you take out Jack the Lhasa Apso one last time to do his nightly duty, you can look up at the stars from your modest-sized backyard in the suburb of Deerfield. It’s an expensive house and lot, and it’s small moments like this that you pay for. But now, walking on this side street, you look up and see only grayish black. No stars, nothing.
You check your phone again and see that you missed a call. A symbol says that you have voice mail. You check it and hear Lisa’s voice.
“Hey—where are you? You’re not going to believe what happened before bedtime. Jack wallowed in crap again, and I had to clean him up. I love how he only does this when you’re out of town. I swear. Call me if you can. Sorry to hear about the dinner. Peyton played with his mac and cheese at my parents’. Olivia didn’t eat anything. Typical dinner. Love you.”
Lisa’s voice sounds so out of place here and now. You miss her. You miss the normalcy of seeing her. You miss resting by her right now.
Because you’re scared
.
You tell yourself you’re not scared, but you are. It’s just coming over you right now, the wave of fear that should have covered you in the car.
You’ve got a wife and two children
.
You know that and you always know that. You leave thehouse and go to bed thinking that. It’s branded on your heart and soul. But sometimes—sometimes—you want to forget. You want to simply have a drink and a good time and not worry so much. You don’t want so much weighing you down.
Too late
.
You wonder what you were thinking. But you know. You know what you were thinking the moment you dialed those numbers. There was a slight hope, a slight tease. You thought maybe, perhaps, possibly
just maybe
and wanted to see where the night took you.
Atmosphere.
345.
That’s where it took you.
And now here, wherever here is.
Good job, Mike
.
You delete Lisa’s voice mail and notice there’s another.
You listen to the second voice mail and stop when Jasmine’s erratic voice comes on the line.
“My God, Mike, I can’t—you gotta help me. I don’t know—I’m sorry—I don’t know who else to—I’m at Exit, this club—please come—”
And then nothing.
You hear muffled noise in the background—a street or a public place or something like that.
The phone number is unlisted. You can’t redial.
You remember that her license is still in your pocket.
I can at least go and see if she’s back home by now
.
You just had a gun pointed at you, waved in your face, brushed up against your cheek.
Those guys weren’t kidding.
They dropped you off in the middle of nowhere. You should be glad you’re alive.
Enough’s enough, Mike
.
But you’re not tired and you’re worried about Jasmine. She might be a flirt and frivolous and flippant but she’s still a young woman and you don’t want to see her hurt.
Jasmine’s going to be fine. She’ll be okay. You don’t need to protect her
.
But maybe she wanted and needed protection. Maybe she’s reaching out for someone to save her.
And maybe, just maybe, that someone is you.
Y OUR HEAD HURTS . B URNS . S TINGS .
The adrenaline is slowing down but you still hurt.
You look around and keep walking.
Walk. Step. Step.
You have no idea where you are and you’re a little afraid.
A little?
Maybe a lot.
You check your phone. Who can you call? The cops?
Call them
.
To say what? To do
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