The call came at 11:41 on a rainy Thursday night.
I almost ignored it.
I was standing barefoot in my apartment kitchen in Seattle, exhausted after work, eating dry cereal straight from the box because I was too tired to cook. Unknown calls that late usually meant spam or coworkers with terrible boundaries.
Still, something made me answer.
“Is this Ms. Claire Bennett?” a woman asked.
“Yes?”
“This is Mercy General Hospital. We have a young boy here who listed you as his emergency contact.”
