Page 45 of Second Alarm

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My phone buzzes.

Hanna: You okay?

Hanna: I heard.

I look at the screen for a long second.

Me: Who told you.

Hanna: Riley.

Of course Riley. She texted Hanna inside of eleven minutes, from inside the Watershed, because Riley is a real friend and a professional who clocks a scene.

Me: I'm okay.

Hanna: You aren't fine.

Me: I'm steady.

Hanna: Ty.

Me: I'm fine. It was expected. That's what Cal would say. He'd say it in that order. I heard it coming.

Hanna: That doesn't mean it didn't hurt.

Me: It's nothing, Hanna.

Hanna: Okay.

Me: Are you okay.

A long pause. The three dots appear, disappear, appear, disappear. Finally:

Hanna: No.

Me: I'm sorry.

Hanna: Don't be. It's not your fault.

Me: Not my fault doesn't mean I'm not sorry.

Hanna: Yeah.

Hanna: I know.

Hanna: That's the problem.

I put the phone on the passenger seat and drive home. I miss the stop sign on Pine — the red light has been out for three weeks, and the city stuck a temporary sign in its place, and it's already in my rearview before I register not stopping. I spend the rest of the drive paying closer attention.

I pull into my driveway of the auto parts store I live over and don't get out. Four minutes, alone in a truck in your own driveway at night, is a long time.

My phone buzzes again.

Hanna: Are you home.

Me: Yes.

Hanna: Can I come over.

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