The rain washed violently over the filthy, cracked pavement of the alley behind the 24-hour pharmacy. The smell of decaying garbage, ozone, and wet asphalt was suffocating. I knelt on the freezing concrete, ignoring the water soaking through the knees of my slacks.
Lying there, huddled against a pile of sodden, disintegrating cardboard boxes, was my daughter.
She was thirty-two years old, brilliant, kind-hearted, and the mother of my seven-year-old granddaughter, Emma. But the woman curled on the pavement looked like a broken bird. She was shivering violently, her cheek pressed against the rough concrete, her dark hair plastered to her skull by the relentless rain. Clutched tightly in her trembling, blue-tipped fingers was her diamond wedding ring, tied to a frayed piece of butcher’s string around her neck like a morbid relic of a dead life.
“Anna,” I breathed, my voice barely audible over the roaring rain.
I reached out and touched her shoulder. She flinched violently, a raw, animalistic reaction of pure terror, before her dull eyes focused on my face.
“Dad?” she whimpered, her voice a cracked, dry rasp.
I didn’t ask how she got here. I didn’t ask why she hadn’t called me. I simply slid my arms under her frail, dangerously light body and lifted her.
As I carried her to my idling car, the nightmare spilled from her chapped lips in fragmented, agonizing gasps.
I reached out and touched her shoulder. She flinched violently, a raw, animalistic reaction of pure terror, before her dull eyes focused on my face.
“Dad?” she whimpered, her voice a cracked, dry rasp.
I didn’t ask how she got here. I didn’t ask why she hadn’t called me. I simply slid my arms under her frail, dangerously light body and lifted her.
As I carried her to my idling car, the nightmare spilled from her chapped lips in fragmented, agonizing gasps.
