Chapter 1 - The Forty-Minute Run
My brother’s voice through the receiver was pitched at the exact frequency of an emergency room alarm. ""Dane! He’s on the linoleum! He reached for the coffee pot and his knee gave out! You hear me? Get off the highway and move!""
I didn't even put on socks. I grabbed my boots, shoved my bare feet into the stiff leather, and hit the ignition of my Chevy before the voicemail beep had even cleared the dashboard. The wipers slapped across the glass, throwing October mist into the ditch weeds as I blew through the yellow on Fourth Street. The Brass Lantern was six blocks behind me. My reservation was for seven o'clock sharp. In my front pocket was a twenty-dollar bill I’d smoothed flat against my thigh three times while shaving, meant to tip the host to make sure Alyssa got the booth tucked away near the stone fireplace.
None of that mattered. In northern Iowa, when an old man goes down on linoleum, his bones don't bounce. Dad had spent thirty-four years hauling fifty-pound bags of feed at the Hampton elevator; his joints were made of chalk and stubborn pride. If he was on the floor, he was broken.
I leaned on the horn behind a combine crawling along Highway 18, then swung onto the gravel with my tires spitting limestone against the wheel wells. The dust hung like wet smoke in the dusk. I kept watching the dashboard clock: 6:24, 6:31, 6:42. Jared was supposedly ninety miles south near Ames for a regional agricultural supply expo, his voice shaking like he was running down an interstate shoulder. He’d told me he tried calling our neighbor, old man Miller, but Miller was half-deaf and didn't answer landlines after six.
""Just breathe, Rodney,"" I muttered under my breath, my knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. ""Just sit tight. Dane's coming.""
When I slid into the driveway outside Sheffield, the front yard was pitch black. No porch light. No siren. Just the blue glow flickering through the living room curtains like an aquarium. I kicked the screen door open so hard the latch tore out of the softwood frame.
""Dad!"" I shouted, tasting the cold rain on my lip. ""Dad, where are you hurt?""
The kitchen was empty. The floor was bone dry. No spilled coffee, no smashed mug, no crumpled old man clutching his hip.
I took three long strides into the den, my chest heaving like a blown tire. Dad was sitting in his brown leather La-Z-Boy, his stocking feet propped up on the footrest. His glasses sat balanced on the tip of his nose. On the little side table beside his armchair, his plastic hearing aids were resting neatly inside an empty ceramic mug shaped like an ear of corn, their tiny little switches clicked over to off.
On the screen, Pat Sajak was pointing at a puzzle that said: A STITCH IN TIME SAVES NINE.
""Dad!"" I yelled, dropping to my knees beside the chair, grabbing his forearm. ""Are you alright? Where's the pain?""
Dad jumped, his elbow knocking against his iced tea glass. He blinked at me through the thick lenses, looking annoyed before he even looked surprised. He reached over, picked up the left hearing aid, shoved it into his canal, and winced as the feedback let out a high-pitched squeal.
""What in the hell are you doing kicking my door down, Dane?"" he barked, his voice flat and gritty. ""You scared the life out of me.""
""Jared called me!"" I gasped, the sweat running cold down my ribs. ""He said you fell! He said you were on the floor and couldn't get up!""
Dad stared at me like I’d spoken Greek. Then he looked at the TV clock in the corner of the screen. ""I been sitting here since six fifteen. The Hawkeyes replay was on before this. What are you hollering about?""
""The phone,"" I pointed at the rotary wall phone hanging by the pantry. ""Did you call him?""
""Ain't touched the receiver since yesterday when the pharmacy rang,"" Dad grunted, turning his attention back to the puzzle board. ""Jared's down in Des Moines anyway. Go shut that front door, you're letting the damp in. And fix the screen latch while you're standing there breathing like a bull.""
I stood frozen in the hallway. The clock over the stove clicked over to 7:08 PM.
Clear Lake was thirty-two miles north. Even if I drove ninety miles an hour, even if I risked rolling the truck on the wet blacktop, I wouldn't hit the Brass Lantern parking lot until nearly quarter to eight. I pulled my flip phone out of my jacket pocket. The screen showed two missed calls from an unlisted local number.
I dialed Alyssa's cell. It went straight to a generic voicemail box that hadn't been set up yet.
May you like
I leaned my forehead against the cool wooden frame of the pantry, my heart pounding a slow, sickening rhythm against my ribs. I thought about Jared’s voice on that recording. The breathlessness. The panic. The way he had specifically said: I’m down in Des Moines. You’re the closest. Go now.
He wasn't in Des Moines.
