Her little bare feet slapped against the hardwood, not toward the stairs, but toward the far side of the kitchen.
David’s head snapped up. “Where is she going? Emma! Get back here!”
He started to rise, but from the corner of the room, the distinct, electronic beep-beep-beep of the landline keypad echoed over the storm outside.
I had programmed the speed dial specifically for her tiny fingers. Button number one.
Emma pulled the heavy receiver down from the wall mount with both hands. Her voice shook violently, but it carried across the massive room.
“Grandpa,” she whispered, tears choking her words. “Mom looks like she’s going to die! There’s a bad accident!”
For the very first time in our three-year marriage, David looked genuinely, profoundly afraid.
He lunged toward the corner, his heavy shoes skidding on the polished floor. “Give me that phone!”
Adrenaline, sharp and primal, pierced through the fog of my pain. As David stepped past me, I threw my upper body forward and clamped both of my hands around his ankle with every ounce of strength I possessed.
“You stupid—!” he roared, kicking his leg violently to free himself.
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