I stumbled to my feet, grabbed my phone off the hallway shelf with shaking hands, and, in a decision that tells you everything about the state of my brain, I speed-dialed my husband instead of simply shouting his name down the stairs.

He was one floor away.

I could have leaned over the banister and called him.

Instead I called his phone, because my thoughts had scattered so completely that dialing felt more manageable than yelling.

“Hey babe,” Zachary answered, easy and cheerful, the sound of the kitchen behind him.

“I’m just about to hop on a quick work call.

Can this wait, like, ten minutes?”

“Zachary, you need to get up here,” I hissed into the phone.