The phone rang at 11:43 p.m.
Not a normal ring. A siren.
My daughter never called that late. Not once.
I answered and heard breathing—ragged, wet, desperate.
Then her voice, so small it barely sounded like her.
“Dad… please come get me.”
Before I could ask where she was or what happened, she said one more thing:
“I’m at Mark’s parents’ house. I can’t leave.”
Then the line went dead.
Four hundred miles is nothing when your kid is afraid.
I drove through the night with one thought repeating like a heartbeat:
If she called, it’s already worse than she’s admitting.
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