“What?” he whispered, his voice cracking into a high wheeze. “Where? The drainage tunnel on East Mercer? Is he breathing? Is Tyler okay?”

My heart stuttered. Tyler.

The entire room went silent. We could hear the frantic, sobbing voice of his wife through the earpiece.

“He almost drowned, Owen! He hit an artery on the rebar! A woman jumped in and pulled him out just before the water went over his head! She tied off his arm and kept his heart beating until the ambulance got there. I just sent you the picture the paramedics took of her. Oh my god, Owen, he almost died.”

Owen’s trembling hand pulled the phone from his ear. He tapped the screen to open the message.

He stared at the photo. Then, slowly, as if his neck gears were rusting, he raised his head and looked across the table — at my matted hair, at the mud caked under my fingernails, at the jagged, torn edge of my blouse.