Page 12 of When to Call a Blitz

There’s only one person I think that could guide me a little bit, and when I realize it’s only ten at night, I hit “call.”

“You okay?” the voice asks the second they pick up, her voice tired.

“Yeah, did I wake you?” I ask, suddenly kicking myself for not sending a text first.

“No, it’s just been a long day. What do you need, sweetie?” my mom asks.

“I just pulled the tower again,” I tell her quickly. There’s a pause. “Twice.”

“Have you been stressed lately?”

“I mean, yeah. It’s been a little bit of a rough patch in life, but I’m doing okay.” I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. “I’m going to be okay.”

“You’re always going to be okay, lovebug. Of course you are. But if you’re going through a rough patch, maybe this is a good thing. Just keep an eye out for anything that may be a new start for you. Sometimes it’s good to start over.”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I listen to her breathing from the other end of the phone, wishing I could go see her. She recently moved to Colorado to get away from the east coast. She needed a new start, and although I have all of my friends here, I do wish I would have gone with her sometimes.

“You okay?” she asks after a few minutes.

“Yeah. I think I’m just tired,” I tell her honestly. I’ve been wiped, I’ve had a long week, and I’ve had too many thoughts in this brain of mine.

It’s time for bed.

“I am too, lovebug. Get some sleep. I love you.”

“Love you too, mom. Get some rest.”

5

EMMETT

Iwake up to the soft pitter-patter of a seven-year-old trying to sneak down the hallway undetected. Unfortunately forme, it’s a familiar sound.

Unfortunately forher, I have the ears of a bat.

Rolling over onto my back, I wipe my hand down my face with a groan. Listening closer, I hear the fridge open and close with a quiet thump, and when I finally hear what I was worried about: the quiet whoosh of the back door being opened and closed, I throw my comforter off me, ready to figure out what evil plans my daughter has this morning.

Grabbing a t-shirt from the top of the basket sitting on top of the chair in the corner, I quietly exit my room, walking down the hallway and hoping I don’t find the kitchen absolutely covered in dirt or something equally terrible that I just don’t have time for.

But instead I’m met with a meticulously kept kitchen—mainly because I hardly use it, instead opting for takeout the last few nights—and silence.

This is, annoyingly, suspicious.

Peeking out the back door, I don’t see her anywhere in the backyard, and I can fee my skin start to get sticky and cold, panic starting to set in.

I immediately whip open the door. “Juniper!” I yell, walking out to the edge of the porch.

It takes a second, but I finally hear the crunch of feet coming around the house.

Juniper is nearly completely ready for school, her brown hair up in a high ponytail, her jeans and hoodie on with no shoes.

“What are you up to?” I ask, unsure if I want to know the actual answer.

“I was just putting out feeders,” she tells me with a little shrug of her shoulders.

“What feeders?” I look toward where she appeared.

She walks past me, shooting me a look I can’t quite place. “The bird feeders we put up, Dad.”

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