My eyelids fly upward, and I exhale so quickly that my lungs hurt. He’s alive. He’s alive!
Mike is dead in a ditch after being mugged.
There’s no doubt about it. I take a shuddering breath and try to think coherently, my palms sweaty on the windowsill.
My husband is missing. Maybe he was on his way home, slipped in the rain, and hit his head. What are his chances if we don’t get him to a hospital ASAP? I should really go out and look for him.
I pull the hood of my sweatshirt tighter and peer outside at the downpour. The steady thrumming of drops against the ledge is calming. Resting my forehead on the cool glass, I close my eyes, breathe in and out. Mike is not dead. He’s helping an insomniac old woman cross the street. He’s rescuing a soaking wet kitten from the uppermost branches of a tree. He’s—
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