With the house quiet once again, Thomas debates whether to go back to bed or keep pushing forward to the kitchen. Again, the phone begins its maddening trill, making Thomas’s decision for him. He picks up his pace, trying to ignore the needle-sharp prickles of pain that he thought he would have become accustomed to by now. No such luck.

“Hello,” Thomas says into the receiver, not bothering to disguise his irritation.

“Mr. Petit?” an official, unfamiliar voice asks.

“Is my wife okay?” Thomas asks. A shiver of fear runs down his spine. He knows how quickly hip injuries can lead to something even worse like pneumonia and blood clots and infections of the bone.

“Mr. Petit, this is Officer Blake Brenner from the Johnson County Sheriff’s Office. Does a child by the name of Jordyn live in your household?”

“What happened now?” Thomas asks. He loves Jordyn beyond words but drama seems to cling to his granddaughter like cockleburs. Last month, the local police brought Jordyn home after she was caught climbing the Pitch water tower east of town.

“Relax, Grandpa,” Jordyn had told him. “It’s no big deal.”

“Sir, does Jordyn Petit reside in your home?” the officer asks firmly, his voiced edged with tension.

Thomas leans against the corner of the kitchen counter. “Yes, she’s my granddaughter. Is she okay? She’s supposed to be spending the night at a friend’s house.”

“Is her mother or father available?” the officer asks.

“No. My wife and I are her legal guardians. Jordyn’s parents aren’t able to care for her.” It pains Thomas to admit that his eldest son and Jordyn’s mother were deadbeats. Unfit to care for Jordyn. “Did something happen?” Thomas asks, finally registering the concern in the officer’s voice.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. So, you’re telling me that Jordyn is not at home right now?”

“No, she’s at a friend’s house. Cora Landry’s,” Thomas says but uncertainty pricks at the corner of his thoughts.

“Jordyn isn’t at the Landrys’ home at this time. That I can confirm,” the deputy says.

“I’ll go check her bedroom,” Thomas says. “Maybe she came home and I didn’t hear her. Can you hold on a second?”

Thomas lays the receiver on the counter and moves as quickly as he can to the bottom of the stairs. “Jordyn, are you up there?” he hollers. There’s no response. With a sigh he begins the ascent, one knee catching and crackling with each step, the other refusing to bend. By the time he reaches the landing, he’s out of breath, damp with sweat and thoroughly irritated.

“Jordyn!” he booms, pushing through the bedroom door, finding it empty. Grabbing tightly to the banister, Thomas makes his way back down the steps and picks up the phone, hoping that the officer hasn’t hung up, impatient for his return.