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number, dummy? She thought, shaking her
head. You think Gramps is just handing it out ?
     
    Feeling silly, she put her phone down
on the table. But before she could pull her hand away, the phone lit up
again—the number was calling back.
     
    Heart in her throat, Bridget answered
the call. “Hello?”
     
    The other end was quiet, but not
silent. She could hear the rustle of cloth, and the faint sounds of breathing.
     
    The warning bells in Bridget’s mind
turned to air raid sirens. She sat forward fast. “Hello? Is someone there?”
     
    Whoever held the other phone had it
to their ear, but they wouldn’t reply. Instead Bridget heard the smack of lips
as they swallowed against a dry, tight throat. She could hear rapid, shallow
breathing.
     
    Instantly the pieces started falling
into place. Most of the unknown numbers that called her belonged to her
students. She gave them her number so they could get a hold of her if they ever
needed her help. Bridget took her responsibility as a lifeline for her kids
very seriously and she had no problem helping them at all hours of the night.
     
    Judging by the sounds of the
breathing and quiet crying she could hear on the other end, this was not an
adult calling her. It was a child. One of her kids.
     
    When she heard the sniffling,
Bridget’s heart tore in her chest. “Hey,” she said, trying with great
difficulty to keep her voice even. “Hey, this is Miss Dawson. Are you from my
class?”
     
    The person on the other end held
their breath. It was as good as a yes for her.
     
    Fuck, what do I do? “Do you need help?” she said. “What’s happening?”
     
    The child began to breathe again,
this time with rapid intensity. They could no longer keep their crying quiet,
and tiny, piping sobs burst through the ragged inhales.
     
    Three tears escaped and ran like
angry rivers down Bridget’s face. Before she could speak again, the sounds of
yelling erupted on the other end of the line. Even though the voices were
muffled and far away, it was clearly between a man and a woman. The kid on the
phone had to have been hiding from it; whoever this kid was, they weren’t
talking because they were trying to stay quiet.
     
    Fear gripped Bridget’s chest. Wrong
moves in a situation like this could make everything worse. “It’s okay if you
can’t talk,” she whispered. “Just listen. If you are in a safe place that’s
hidden, stay there. Stay quiet.”
     
    She jumped off the couch and rushed
to the kitchen. On her fridge was a list of numbers to various agencies and
businesses she kept on-hand to help her job, and near the top of the list was
the direct line to a personal friend at Child Protective Services. She copied the
number down with shaky hands on a post-it note. “You did good by calling me. I
can get you some help, honey, but I need to know who you are. Your phone number
doesn’t say.” She tried to keep her voice calm and quiet.
     
    In the background of the other line,
the yelling grew louder. Bridget couldn’t make out the words being said.
Suddenly something wood and glass crashed loudly behind the sound of a woman’s
scream, and the caller on the line gasped with full voice and inhaled before he
could help himself.
     
    In that instant Bridget knew: Toby
Cary.
     
    She knew. She knew it was him, but
she had to be sure. “Honey? Can you tell me your name, please? I want to help.”
     
    He was breathing fast, crying.
Whatever was happening was right outside his hiding spot, now, and the yelling
of the adults had mutated into wordless, frightened screaming.
     
    Desperate, Bridget said, “Toby? Is
that you, Toby?”
     
    Something hard hit the door and the
boy cried out.
     
    “Toby,” said Bridget, trying
desperately to keep her voice down. “Toby, please, tell me if it’s you!”
     
    A woman screamed, and the call cut
off.
     
    Bridget stood at the counter with
tears in her eyes for a good thirty seconds, listening to the dead air of the
phone at