A week passed. I spent the afternoons on my porch, watching the world pass by. Sometimes, someone would wave, and I’d wave back, but nobody stopped to talk.
One day, David and Leo came outside to throw passes. I thought they were just having fun at first, but then I realized David was all business.
“Again! Level it out. You’re letting the nose dip. Focus, Leo.”
Leo retrieved the ball, his movements sluggish, and threw it again.
I thought they were just having fun at first.
When a throw went wide into the bushes, David rubbed the bridge of his nose and checked his watch.
“Tell him to keep his elbow up,” I muttered.
“You’re not focused. Go throw at the wall until you get it right.” David stepped toward the house.
Leo watched his father go, then his shoulders slumped. He threw the ball straight down at the ground. It bounced high, landed on the sidewalk, and rolled into the road. Leo moved to retrieve it.
“Keep your elbow up,” I called out to him when he picked up the ball. “And step into your throws.”
“You’re not focused. Go throw at the wall until you get it right.”
He looked at me like I’d spoken to him in a foreign language.
“You’ve got the arm, son. Just need to work on the mechanics.”
Leo nodded. He seemed doubtful, but he called out a thanks and went back to his yard. His next throw was cleaner. He glanced at me across the road, and I gave him a thumbs-up.
Less than a week later, things got downright strange.
I was sitting in my darkened living room when I saw the first signal.
Less than a week later, things got downright strange.
Three short. Three long. Three short. Morse code. S.O.S.
My pulse spiked in a way that’s not healthy at my age. I stood, my joints popping like dry kindling, and moved to the glass. The street was quiet. There were no signs of danger except the rhythmic pulsing of the flashlight.
The next morning, the house was a picture of suburban order. Sarah watered the petunias; David left in a crisp, pressed shirt; Leo slung his backpack over his shoulder and climbed into the car without a word.
What did it mean?
Three short. Three long. Three short. Morse code. S.O.S.
I figured the boy had just been messing around.
But it happened again the next night. And the night after.
Then, it started to look like a bad prank.
On the fourth night, I reached for my lamp and flicked the switch once: a single, sharp shutter-click of light. The window across the street went dark instantly.
Two days later, I intercepted Leo at the mailboxes.
I figured the boy had just been messing around.
“Son, I don’t know what kind of jokes you think you’re pulling, but that signal is serious. It can save lives. Don’t use it for nothing.”
Leo didn’t look embarrassed. His eyes had an old, weary stability to them.
“I never joke, sir. Watch your window carefully.”
He walked away then, and I watched him go. I didn’t know what to make of it.
For the next few nights, the signals stopped.
“That signal is serious. It can save lives. Don’t use it for nothing.”
I was relieved at first, but then right before I went to bed on Monday, I saw the lights flashing from that window again. It wasn’t S.O.S. that time.
I grabbed a notepad and a pen, my mind automatically translating the rhythm.
WE. NEED. YOUR. HELP. COME. INTO. THE. HOUSE.
The message repeated several times, then the light stayed off…
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