Page 56 - WCM 2022 Winter

their house, my eyes dimly registered that it was open as I leaped through.
“Thomas! Up here!”
There was a stairway just to the left of the darkened entryway. It went up to a landing, turned right, then went up again. I stubbed my toe on a small table next to the wall. A cordless phone was jarred out of its charger and clattered to the floor as I hobbled toward the stairs.
Up I ran. At the top, there were several rooms, one of them was lit dimly, as if by candle or a small lamp. Kyle’s voice came from within.
“Here! She’s right here!”
I came into the room and looked around. Many things burned into my eyes. My brain absorbed them in a split second.
There was a hospital bed against the wall, like one would use for hospice care. It was neatly made, and looked as if it had not been occupied for a long time. Above it, attached to the wall, there was a shelf ... on it, a framed picture of Kyle in his Skrillex shirt and jeans. Next to it, I recognized his red car and blue truck, clean except for a layer of dust on them.
Adjacent to the bed was a table. The small lamp resting there cast its meager rays into the room. There were also vials of various medications on it ... again, covered in dust except for a bare circle where one had been removed.
There was a Skrillex poster on the wall.
Most importantly, there was a woman lying on her side, motionless, on the floor, arm outstretched, hand open, a nearby vial on its side, slightly rolled away, a circular track in the dust.
Samantha.
I dropped down beside her and rolled her onto her back. A square object fell from the cradle of her other arm and clunked to the hardwood floor.
In college, I had worked as an usher at basketball games. I had learned some basic first aid as part of my training, so I knew how to properly take a person’s pulse. This woman had no pulse.
“Kyle!” I bellowed. “Call 911!”
There was no answer.
In a lightning panic, my mind considered options: CPR, or run downstairs and call for help, assuming I
56