I can’t stop myself from calling Charlie’s name through the cold, dusty air. I am a whisper. A plea.
He doesn’t answer.
I convince myself he’s only sleeping. Happily dreaming of things he loves.
I should be quiet. I should let him dream.
I want to sleep, too, but I need to stay awake. And aware. In case someone comes. I listen for a shout. A whistle. A siren. Hope.
California has to have been declared a national disaster by now. The Big One could have cut off the water supply and gutted entire towns. It could leave a death toll in the thousands. It could have crushed buildings and split freeways in half. Rescue crews would be everywhere. Help would have come in from other states. People and emergency medical supplies and blood-bank donations would arrive.
I know what I’ve seen on TV of disasters in other places. Of hurricanes in the South. Of tornadoes in the Midwest. Of earthquakes in other countries. My brain is a swirl of images of what those towns looked like and what those people had to do. If here and now is anything like that, then people are helping somewhere. There might be rescue stations set up with donations of water and diapers and tampons and oversize sweatshirts. There might even be one right down the street from here. I picture myself arriving there. Shuffling in on dragging feet. I’d come in slow motion, my own version of the zombie apocalypse. There will be first aid tents and doctors with gentle hands and soothing voices to help me. And they’ll find my mom. And Leo.
“Charlie,” I whisper again. Only wishing. I am breath and hope.
I am things I cannot say.
I am words not spoken out loud.