Tasha had sent a message.
“Kids dropped at Ross’s. He opened the door. Heading to the ER. Love you.”
I smiled.
Then typed back.
“Love you. Have a safe shift.”
A few minutes later, Abby knocked on the studio window.
She held up a note.
A listener wanted a song dedicated to an old girlfriend.
I put on my headphones.
Opened the microphone.
And returned to work.
There were no warning signs.
Not then.
The broadcast moved quickly.
People called to dedicate music to spouses, friends, parents, and coworkers.
One truck driver told me he’d been on the road for eleven hours and wanted a song that reminded him of home.
A woman working at a nursing facility requested something cheerful for the staff.
I played what I could.
At one point, a caller wanted to dedicate a particularly unkind message to his former girlfriend.
I told him the station preferred to keep things friendly.
“Can I request something a little sad instead?” he asked.
I laughed.
“Sir, that’s what country music was invented for.”
Abby laughed through the glass.
For several hours, everything felt ordinary.
At 10:52, my phone lit up with an unfamiliar number.
I noticed it briefly.
Then returned to the broadcast.
The same number called again.
Abby saw the screen from the production booth.
She wrote the time on a sticky note.
But because the calls weren’t coming from anyone I recognized, I assumed they weren’t urgent.
On New Year’s Eve, radio hosts receive strange calls.
Some are harmless.
Others are people who have mistaken our personal numbers for the station’s request line.
I kept my phone facedown.
When midnight approached, the station lines began filling.
I counted down with thousands of listeners.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Across Wichita, people were celebrating.
Families gathered around televisions.
Friends raised glasses.
Children stayed awake later than usual.
At midnight, I wished everyone a happy new year.
I had no idea that my own two children had spent much of the evening sitting outside a brightly lit house, wondering when someone would let them in.
The rest of the shift passed quietly.
A nurse requested a lullaby for the staff working through the holiday.
A long-distance driver asked about the weather.
Abby continued leaving notes beside the console.
At six in the morning, I handed the station over to the next crew.
I was tired but happy.
I imagined going home, sleeping for a few hours, and spending the afternoon with Calvin and Molly.
Then Abby appeared beside me.
“Your phone.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“The unknown number from last night. It called more than once.”
I picked up the phone.
There was a voicemail.
I opened it.
An older man’s voice came through the speaker.
“Dwayne, this is Lamar Watkins. I live across the street from your brother Ross.”
I became still.
The voice continued.
“Your son Calvin gave me your number. He’s got it memorized.”
I sat down.
“Your children are safe, but I wanted you to know they were outside Ross’s house for quite a while tonight.”
My chest tightened.
“I brought them inside my home when I realized nobody was coming for them. They were cold, but they’re all right.”
I closed my eyes.
The voice paused.
Then continued.
“I called your father, too. He’s coming to get them. Please call when you can.”
I stared at the phone.
Abby was standing beside the console.
Her expression had changed.
“Dwayne?”
I couldn’t answer.
I replayed the message.
Then again.
Outside.
Cold.
Your children.
I looked toward the clock.
The station was already preparing for its morning programming.
I grabbed my coat and called Dad.
He answered immediately.
“Son.”
“Where are Calvin and Molly?”
His voice became quiet.
“They’re with me.”
“Are they safe?”
“Yes.”
For a moment, I felt my knees weaken.
Then I asked, “What happened?”
Dad sighed.
“It’s a long story.”
I closed my eyes.
“I’m coming over.”
The drive to my father’s house took less than twenty minutes.
I barely remember it.
The roads were quiet.
The sky was beginning to brighten.
Christmas decorations still glowed in a few neighborhood windows.
When I reached Dad’s house, the kitchen light was on.
I walked inside.
The room smelled like toast and coffee.
Calvin sat at the table wearing yesterday’s sweatshirt.
Molly sat beside him with her hands wrapped around a mug of warm chocolate milk.
Dad was sitting across from them in his winter coat.
He hadn’t even taken it off.
When Molly saw me, she hurried across the kitchen.
“Daddy.”
I knelt.
She hugged me tightly.
For several seconds, she didn’t speak.
I held her and felt how carefully she was breathing.
Then I looked toward Calvin.
He stood.
For a moment, he seemed uncertain what to do.
Then he extended his hand.
My son sometimes did that when he was upset and wanted to behave like an adult.
I looked at his hand.
Then pulled him into a hug.
“Come here, buddy.”
He held on longer than usual.
I closed my eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
He whispered, “We’re okay.”
I nodded.
Then I looked toward Dad.
“Tell me what happened.”
My father stared into his coffee.
For several seconds, he didn’t speak.
Finally, Calvin answered.
“Uncle Ross opened the door when we got there.”
I turned toward him.
“All right.”
“He came outside and shut the door behind him.”
My chest tightened.
“What did he say?”
Calvin looked toward Molly.
Then back at me.
“He said Jillian and her brother wanted a party without the little cousins.”
I stared.
“He said we should wait outside until Grandpa came.”
I looked toward Dad.
He closed his eyes.
Calvin continued.
“We thought it would only be a few minutes.”
I took a slow breath.
“Did you knock?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“After we’d been waiting a while.”