My heart stopped.
That wasn’t right.
It should have been a six at the end of the number.
But I had typed a nine.
I hadn’t sent the message to my aunt.
I had sent it to a stranger.
An unknown number.
My brother cried louder. His tiny fists clenched as he pressed his mouth against my shoulder, searching for something I couldn’t give him.
I tried to delete the message.
Too late.
The check marks turned blue.
Someone had read it.
Someone had seen a desperate message from a child who didn’t know what else to do.
The phone vibrated.
A Reply From a Stranger
My hands shook as I picked it up.
“Are you okay? Is this an emergency?”
Relief washed over me, followed immediately by fear.
I typed back as fast as my trembling fingers would allow.
“I’m sorry, sir. I sent this by mistake. My baby brother needs milk. My mom can pay you back on the fifth.”
Every second stretched painfully long.
My brother, exhausted from crying, began sucking on his own hand. His eyelids fluttered.
The phone buzzed again.
“Where are you, Emma?”
My stomach dropped.
My mom had always warned me.
Never tell strangers where you live.
Never.
But my brother couldn’t wait five days.
I typed our address anyway, every letter feeling heavier than the last.
Then I closed my eyes and prayed, quietly and honestly, that this time I hadn’t made another mistake.
The Man Who Read the Message
Miles away, in a quiet neighborhood lined with tall trees and wide lawns, Jonathan Reed stood alone in his kitchen, staring at his phone.
The house was large, tasteful, and painfully silent.
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