She picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”
“Mom, it’s me.”
“Autumn. Finally!”
There it was. The mix of relief and exasperation that only a mother could pull off.
“I called you only a few days ago,” I reminded her, already knowing it wouldn’t matter. “I told you I’d be hiking for a bit longer.”
“Yes, and a bit is already stretching into too long.”
I sighed. “Mom?—”
“I know, I know. You’re an adult, you can take care of yourself. But that doesn’t mean I stop worrying.”
I smiled faintly. “I’m fine. Really.”
“How come your number keeps changing?”
“My phone broke. The other day, I borrowed a friend’s. Just don’t call that one back, okay?” I should’ve warned her then. I hoped it wasn’t too late.
“Oh. So this one’s yours now?”
“Yeah, it is.”
A pause.
“I’ll be home in a few days,” I added.
“Good. You know offseasons don’t last forever. Fall club meets are coming up soon. Tell me you haven’t forgotten.”
Forget?No, I hadn’t forgotten. But as I glanced down at my calf, reality settled in. The “twig trauma point,” as Dom called it, would take weeks to heal.
Forget about swimming.
But I didn’t say it.
Instead, I forced a light tone. “Nope. I haven’t forgotten. I still have time.”
Mom wasn’t buying it. “You know you’ve got to train before the training. Don’t go thinking you’ve got all the time in the world, missy.”
“I know.” I sighed. “Relax, Mom.”
She exhaled, the worry still there but softening at the edges. “All right. Just keep me updated, okay? And don’t do anything reckless.”
I let out a dry laugh. “Me? Never.”
She huffed but didn’t argue. “Love you, baby.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
I ended the call and slipped my phone into my pocket.
Around the corner, Lulu barked. A German Shepherd answered back, hackles raised, its focus pinned on her. Lulu tugged at the leash and almost took me with her.
“Lulu, stay!” I said.
The owner tugged hard on the harness, mumbling apologies as he struggled to pull the dog away. But Lulu barely gave the shepherd a second glance. Her body had gone rigid, her ears locked forward on something else.