JT Johnson

When she didn't answer, I was in my car.

A strange, cold rock pressing down in my mouth.

I didn't want to acknowledge the worry running circles on my tongue, the way her face kept burning brighter in my head.

I made the two-hour drive gnawing through my nails, contemplating all the things that could have gone wrong.

Her hip had been bad.

Maybe she'd fallen.

Had she hit her head?

Was she stuck on the floor?

The worries chased me like dogs.

The closer I became, the more certain I was something had truly gone terribly wrong.

My brakes let out small cries as I pulled into the empty spot beside her old Buick, taking notice of the one flat tire on the back.

She had let her license expire years ago, the conversation replaying as I sat up and stared at the house from the safety of my car.

I don't go anywhere.

She had explained over the phone, voice breathless as if each word took more from her than it should have.

And if I need to go somewhere, I have people I can call who don't mind taking me if I'm in a pinch.

Besides, she had chuckled then, a joke only she herself had been in on.

I'm probably more dangerous behind the wheel now.

My eyes, you know, and my arthritis.

The conversation began to fade, fizzling out like an old song on an even older radio, my heart sinking as I stepped out of the car, momentarily lifting when I heard the sound of her TV from inside.

I had made it up three of the five steps before the front door swung open, the bad hinge screeching loudly as the door slapped against the side of the house.