She’d fallen asleep reading on the couch. Something had startled her awake, and when she glanced at the grandfather clock, she was surprised to see it was one a.m.
Somewhere in the distance, the wail of a siren rang through the night. Roberta sat up. The siren rose outside her window, and she fettered the urge to stand up and go look. The firehouse was in the town center, a few miles away. There was nothing to see. But still, it filled Roberta with a sense of unease. It always did. Living in a small town meant it was likely someone she knew.
As the siren rose and fell, it was joined by another. Fire truck, she thought. Or maybe ambulance? It was too far off to be sure.
She rubbed her eyes and set her book on the coffee table. Maybe it was a false alarm. Or maybe someone had fallen in their home. As the sirens and trucks drew closer, she stood up and went to the window. She turned out the light. Sure enough, the stark glow of red lights filled the darkness up the road and spilled into her living room. She stood back as one, then another, fire truck roared by her little house. The walls shook with the reverberations. A moment later, an ambulance followed. Roberta stepped away from the window.
It had been fourteen years since she’d been to church, and if anyone asked, Roberta would tell them herself that religion was no longer for her.
But in times like this, her Catholicism rose involuntarily within her like a vine unfurling, and she didn’t question it. In the dark, she did a quick Hail Mary. She hoped that everyone was all right. And that wherever the emergency vehicles were headed, they got there in time.