Lost in Time(30)

Sam wasn’t so sure.

He was weak. A day without food would do that. And Sam had exercised more that day than he had in a long time.

He felt as though the sea was testing him, and there was no pass or fail. Only live or die.

The crescent moon glowing above him hung silently like a proctor watching, waiting to see if he had what it took to survive here.

In his mind, he returned to that source of strength: the vision of him stepping out of Absolom, reaching out and hugging his children, of the world set right again. He didn’t know how he could do it, only that the prospect of seeing them again was worth giving everything he had.

Sam rolled over and began cutting through the water as the rain pelted harder and the sky grumbled. The storm was growing stronger. He wondered if that was the pattern of this corner of the Pangea coast: late afternoon showers and night storms.

When the muscles in his arms and legs were burning, he once again flipped onto his back and rested, letting the rain gather in his mouth. He was weary to his bones. And hungry. Exhausted in a way he had never known—or even knew was possible.

He wondered if he were only swimming for himself—if he didn’t have anyone to come back to—if he would have given it up.

It wasn’t just seeing his family again. He needed to get back to protect them. Whoever had framed him might be watching them right now—plotting something else.

He had a promise to keep. And he would, no matter how far he had to swim. He would make it to that shore or die trying. Those were the only two possibilities for him now.

He realized then what a powerful source of strength a child in danger could be. Nothing gave a parent superpowers like knowing their child needed them and that no one else could help them.

Sam had never experienced that until now. But he had seen it.

As he floated, staring at the stars, gathering his strength to battle the sea again, a memory came of lying on a narrow child’s bed, staring up at a smattering of plastic glow-in-the-dark stars that had been puttied to the ceiling. He was holding a book, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C. S. Lewis. Adeline lay beside him, her eyes drooping, her small left hand gently resting on his chest. Sleep would come soon for her, but she always fought it with the last shred of strength she had. During her childhood, Sam had likely asked her a million times, “Are you tired?”

In those years, he had only ever heard one reply: “No.”

That included the instances when her eyelids were nearly closed and when she fell asleep within sixty seconds of declaring her lack of fatigue. This was one of those times.

As Sam turned the page, he glanced over at her, checking to see if Adeline had drifted off.

She saw him and instantly raised her eyelids, fighting to stay awake. He was caught. She wasn’t going to let him get away that easy tonight.

He continued reading. Across the hall, Ryan was crying. Sarah exited the master bedroom, cradling him in her arms, lightly rocking, her sing-song voice starting a tune to soothe him. This was the anthem of their nights now: a reading dad, a singing, marching mother, and a crying baby.

On his hip, Sam felt a gentle vibration.

He drew the phone out and read the caller.

Elliott.

Adeline’s eyes were closed again, probably for good for the night.

Sam gently peeled her hand from his chest, rose, and crept out of the room, swiping to answer the call as he closed the door.

Elliott was shouting in the background—and someone was screaming back at him.

Sam jogged down the hallway, his bare feet patting against the creaking hardwood floor.

“Elliott?”

In the living room, Sarah was sitting with Ryan in her arms, a finger pressed to the pacifier in his mouth. She looked up at him with bulging eyes that said, I just got him to sleep! Be quiet!

Sam couldn’t make out the voice shouting back at Elliott. In the background, there was a crash.

“Elliott!” Sam called. His heart beat faster. His eyes darted back and forth, thinking.

Sarah’s expression turned from annoyance to concern.

“Sam?”

Sam was about to yell into the phone when Elliott spoke, voice ragged. “Sam, I need help.”

“Where are you? Are you hurt?”

“I’m at home.”

The moment Elliott spoke the word home, Sam bolted from the living room, through the tiny foyer, and out the front door, not bothering to put his shoes on. Sarah called to him, but the thundering in Sam’s ears swallowed the words.

His feet pounded the pavement of the sidewalk between his house and Elliott’s.

Sam raced across the front yard, grimacing as sticks dug into his feet. But he never slowed. He heard the screams through the closed front door.

He turned the handle just as another crash came, glass hitting the wall, shattering, the shards spraying the backside of the door. Sam stopped and waited for the barrage to pass, then stepped out, first surveying the floor for glass. It was one thing to charge across an unkempt lawn. Walking across broken glass was another. It seemed the shards weren’t the only dangerous thing in the room.

At the edge of the living room, under a cased opening that led to the kitchen, Elliott’s only son, Charlie, was screaming at his parents, the words slurred, indecipherable to Sam. Dark black bags hung under his wild eyes. His black hair was stringy and greasy, partially covering his eyes like a predator staring through blades of tall grass.