PART 3 – I Told the Dispatcher Exactly What My Son Had Said, but All I Could Think About Was the Man Still Inside

I reached the parking garage with my phone still in my hand.

I found my car.

I opened the door.

Then I called 911.

I had never been so frightened while making a phone call.

The dispatcher answered.

I told her my name.

Then my address.

Then I tried to explain what Noah had told me.

"My son is four years old."

I forced myself to speak clearly.

"He called me from home. He said his mother's boyfriend hit him with a baseball bat."

The dispatcher asked whether my son was injured.

"Yes."

"Where is he hurt?"

"His arm."

I gripped the steering wheel.

"He said it hurts badly."

She asked whether I knew where the man was.

"I think he's still in the house."

I told her about Lena.

I gave her Travis's first name.

I explained that Noah's mother was not there when he called.

Then I told her about the threat.

"My son said the man told him he'd hit him again if he cried."

There was a pause while she took down the information.

I wanted her to understand something.

Noah was four.

He was not old enough to defend himself.

He was not old enough to decide what to do when a grown man threatened him.

He had done the only thing he could think of.

He had called his father.

And I had been sitting in a meeting.

Looking back, that part still hurts.

The dispatcher told me officers were being sent.

I told her my brother was heading toward the house.

"He's closer than I am."

She asked me to tell him not to confront the man if he could avoid it.

I understood.

I really did.

But I also understood that my boy was inside that house.

I told her I would pass along the warning.

Then I began driving.

The city had never felt so crowded.

I reached a red light.

Stopped.

Watched cars move through the intersection.

Waited.

My hands were damp against the steering wheel.

I kept looking at the clock.

Every minute felt too long.

I wanted to call Noah again.

I wanted to hear his voice.

But Travis had already taken the phone.

Or at least the call had ended when Travis demanded it.

I did not know what would happen if the phone rang again.

So I kept driving.

I thought about Noah's blue winter coat.

The one that zipped right up under his chin.

I thought about how small his hands looked inside the sleeves.

I thought about his bicycle.

His little fists bumping Derek's hand.

The way he called for me when he was frightened.

I wanted to be home.

That was all.

I did not care about the meeting.

I did not care about the work I had left behind.

I wanted to see my son.

I wanted to know whether he was conscious.

Whether he could stand.

Whether his arm was broken.

Whether that man had touched him again.

Then my phone rang.

Derek.

I answered immediately.

"Where are you?"

"Two blocks away."

I looked at the traffic ahead of me.

"Please keep talking to me."

"I'm here."

"Don't hang up."

"I won't."

I remembered the dispatcher's warning.

"The police are coming. They said not to confront him if you can avoid it."

Derek did not argue.

He kept his voice steady.

"Understood."

I tried to breathe normally.

I could hear his vehicle moving.

Then he spoke again.

"I've got the house in sight."

Those words should have made me feel better.

Instead, my hands tightened around the steering wheel.

Because Derek was there.

And I was not.

Click here to continue reading: PART 4: My Brother Reached the Driveway Before I Could Get Through Traffic, and I Heard Every Footstep Through My Phone