When I round the corner and first see the building that once housed my mom’s office, it takes everything I have not to sink to the ground in despair. Ten stories have tumbled down. Bits and pieces sit crisscrossed on top of one another like pickup sticks.
There are rescue workers scattered and dogs poking around. There are trucks in the distance. There are tents. And people. But the insides of the tents are nearly empty. They aren’t filled to capacity like the tents where the big hands and the calm voice brought me. I’m in the belly of downtown where there were so many people. It’s day eight and they’re still looking. It’s a place where you can’t give up. But seeing those almost-empty tents makes my heart stutter. Everything looks done. Over.
I try to make sense of what I’m seeing. Which building was where? It’s so hard to distinguish anything beyond the piles of concrete and broken walls.
I push on with purpose. Me and my crusty sweatshirt and my water bottle and Charlie’s journal. I survey the rubble, thinking it makes me look important. Like I’m supposed to be here. But when I take one step too many, I’m stopped by a shout.
“You can’t go there!” The voice is loud and bold and feels like it’s literally pushing down on my shoulders to keep me from taking another step.
I turn to see a big man with a big dog. He’s wearing a bright orange vest and holding something that kind of looks like a laptop with a handle on it. A portable radar detector. I’ve seen them on TV. It senses heartbeats and breathing. The dog pads around him, sniffing at the cracks and crevices. Like the dog that found me.
I take another step forward.
“I said stop.”
He’s in front of me now.
“My mom worked here,” I say. “I have to find her.” I lift my chin, daring him to stop me.
“You can’t find your mom?” His voice is calmer. Softer. Kinder.
There’s something about his kindness that makes me want to cry. But I will not break. I will not.
“No.” I straighten my shoulders. “And I’m sick of people telling me to sit and wait.”
He nods. “Understandable.”
The dog brushes past his leg. The man instinctively runs his hand across its head as it goes. It stops at my feet. Sniffs. Won’t move on. It presses its nose to my hand. Nuzzles. I remember the press of a dog’s wet nose finding me in front of the laundromat. The shouts. Stay with me.
“Are you sure she was in the building when The Big One hit?” he asks.
“Pretty sure.”
I look at the rubble. Take in the mess. Weigh the risk. Count the chances.
“Were there survivors here?”
“There were. We actually pulled two people out late last night.” He looks like he’s remembering. “Two women.”
Two women. Last night. “They were alive?”
“They were critical.”
“Where are they now?”
“We sent them by medevac to SHC Med.”
“Where is that? How do I get there?”
“It’s about twenty minutes south. On a good day. And . . .” He looks around. “This isn’t exactly a good day.”
I stare at the ground. I’ve already come so far from the other direction. My legs can barely hold me up anymore. How am I supposed to get somewhere else?
“Can you take me?”
He draws in a breath. “I’m not supposed to do stuff like that.”
I sink. Sit. The dog sits down next to me. Licks my hand. I close my eyes. Lift my face to the sun. Try to collect myself. I remember that sliver of light through the rubble and the way it led me from day to night and day again. I open my eyes. Look right at him. The dog sniffs at my hand. Pulls at the edge of my sweatshirt. Whimpers.
The man looks at me closely. Closer. He shakes his head like he’s clearing it.
“No way,” he says.
“What?”
“Were you at. . . a laundromat?”
I freeze. I am frozen. “Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.” I watch him. Because now I know. “It was you.”
“It was me.” He shakes his head again like he can’t believe how small and real and astonishing the world actually is. “I’m so glad you’re okay. We don’t always know if the people we help end up okay.”
I clench my fists. Look at him as my eyes fill with tears. “I’m not okay. I’m breaking. I need to find my mom. She’s all I have.”
He looks around. Watches the dog. Stares at the emptiness. Scratches his head. “Wait here.”
He walks up and over and through the wreckage to a tent in the distance. His big boots thump against the ground as he goes. The same way they did when he carried me out of the rubble. I remember his big hands and his calm voice.
Stay with me, he’d said. Stay.
I want to say the same thing to him right now. Stay with me. Don’t leave me to figure this out alone. Because seeing him, someone familiar after so many strangers, makes me feel like he’s someone I know.
Someone I’m meant to know.
Like Charlie. And Nurse Cathy.
The man comes back. Offers his hand to help me up.
I take it.
His grip is instantly comforting.
“Come with me,” he says. “I’m Mitchell. I think I can help.”