I was shaking by the time I reached the hallway.
I nearly dropped my keys.
I looked at my phone again.
Tuesday.
2:14 in the afternoon.
I could see Noah's calls in the recent-call list.
The last conversation had lasted only thirty-one seconds.
Thirty-one seconds.
That was all it took to turn an ordinary afternoon into something I could barely understand.
I headed for the elevator.
My office was twenty minutes from home.
Twenty minutes on a good day.
There were traffic lights between us.
Cars.
Intersections.
A whole downtown area I suddenly wished I could drive straight through.
I pressed the elevator button.
Then I pressed it again.
I knew that would not make it arrive faster.
I did it anyway.
All I could hear was Noah telling me about his arm.
And the other man's voice.
That threat.
I knew I needed the police.
I also knew the police might not get there before somebody who was already nearby.
My brother.
Derek.
He was older than me.
He had always been the one who showed up when something needed fixing.
Not with a speech.
Not with a promise.
He just came.
I remembered the day Noah was born.
Derek stood beside me while my son lay wrapped in a blue hospital blanket.
He had looked at that tiny baby and smiled.
Later, he taught Noah how to bump fists.
Noah loved doing that with him.
Sometimes he did it so hard that Derek pretended his hand hurt.
My son would laugh.
That was the sound I wanted to hear again.
I remembered Noah's yellow bicycle.
Derek had given it to him for his birthday in May.
One of the training wheels had gotten bent.
I could still picture Derek crouched beside that little bicycle with a wrench.
Grease worked into the lines of his hands.
He had spent years repairing cars.
To Derek, a damaged wheel was something to inspect, understand, and put right.
He had pointed out a scrape on the bicycle frame once.
There was white paint over the damaged yellow metal.
He had asked whether Noah had run into my garage again.
Just another ordinary question.
Just another ordinary afternoon.
I had never thought I would miss something so simple.
I also remembered the night Noah had a fever.
Derek stayed beside him until morning.
He did not complain about losing sleep.
He did not make a big deal out of it.
He stayed because Noah needed someone.
That was my brother.
He had also spent years training and fighting in regional mixed martial arts.
A shoulder injury had ended that part of his life.
But I did not call him because he knew how to fight.
I called because he knew how to stay calm.
Because he cared about Noah.
Because he would understand that this was not a situation for shouting or wasting time.
The elevator doors opened.
I stepped inside and called him.
He answered.
"Michael?"
"Derek, where are you?"
"What's happened?"
"Noah called me."
I swallowed.
"Lena's boyfriend hit him with a baseball bat."
Silence.
Only for a moment.
Then Derek asked, "Where's Noah now?"
"At the house."
"Are you there?"
"No. I'm still at work."
I looked at the elevator numbers.
"I'm twenty minutes away."
Derek's voice changed.
Not louder.
Quieter.
"Where are you?" I asked.
"About fifteen minutes from your place."
My heart dropped.
He was closer.
Not close enough to make me comfortable.
But closer.
"Please go there."
"I'm heading over."
"I'm calling the police."
"Do that."
I closed my eyes.
"Derek, Noah said Travis threatened to hit him again."
My brother did not swear.
He did not shout.
He answered with a few words.
"I'm going."
Then he moved.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: I Told the Dispatcher Exactly What My Son Had Said, but All I Could Think About Was the Man Still Inside
I Was Sitting Through Another Meeting When My Four-Year-Old Son Called and Said Something That Made Me Forget Everything Else
Part 2 of 10
