The number should have been a six at the end.
But I wrote a nine.
I didn’t send the message to my aunt.
I sent it to a stranger.
Unknown number.
My brother cried even harder. He clenched his fists and pressed his lips against my arm, searching for something I couldn’t give him.
I tried to delete the message.
Too late.
The little birds turned blue.
Someone had read it.
Someone had seen the desperate message from a child who didn’t know what else to do.
The phone vibrated.
An unknown number answered.
My hands were shaking as I answered.
“Are you okay? Is this an emergency?”
I felt a wave of relief, followed by fear.
I typed as fast as my trembling fingers would allow.
“I’m sorry, sir. I sent this by mistake. My little brother needs milk. Mom can pay you the fifth.”
Every second dragged painfully.
My brother, exhausted from crying, began sucking on his hand. His eyelids fluttered.
The phone vibrated again.
“Where are you, Emma?”
My stomach clenched.
My mom always warned me.
Never tell strangers where you live.
Never.
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