“St. Matthew’s.”
The cake suddenly became impossibly heavy.
“Why?”
“He was injured.”
A firefighter named Grant rushed forward when the box nearly slipped from my hands.
“I’ve got it.”
I let him take it.
“How badly?”
Captain Reyes hesitated.
That hesitation was unbearable.
“He was conscious when they transported him.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He nodded.
“There was a warehouse fire. Part of the interior structure collapsed.”
My mouth went dry.
“Tyler and two others were inside. Everyone got out, but Tyler took most of the impact.”
I stared at him.
“He called me this morning.”
“I know.”
“He sounded completely normal.”
“That was before the call.”
Suddenly, I could see him again standing in our kitchen.
His bag over his shoulder.
His ridiculous warning not to do anything crazy.
His final casual:
“Love you.”
Ordinary words that suddenly felt enormous.
“Why didn’t anyone call me?”
Captain Reyes frowned.
“We tried.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“We did.”
I pulled out my phone.
“No missed calls. Nothing.”
He asked for my number.
I recited it.
Halfway through, his face changed.
“That isn’t the number on Tyler’s emergency contact form.”
“What?”
He read the final digits.
They belonged to my old phone number.
The one I had changed almost two years earlier.
For one absurd second, I almost laughed.
My husband could remember complicated rescue procedures and equipment checks but had forgotten to update the one form that could have reached me when he was hurt.
“I’m going to the hospital.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“No.”
“You’re shaking.”
