3AH8

When she woke up, there were seventeen voicemails from a stranger. She saw the dot on the phone icon for missed calls and another dot on the voicemail icon. She didn’t recognize the number, not even the area code. Another collection agency, she was sure. They called constantly. She sat the phone aside without pressing play.

She poured a bowl of store-brand Cheerios and water. Maybe she could buy milk Friday, if she stuck to her budget.

She brushed her teeth with no toothpaste, decided no not bother with a shower, and plopped down in front of the TV. It would be so easy to binge a comfort show and wallow in her misery, but, with a deep sigh, she pulled up Pandora for background music and went back to applying for jobs. Two weeks, almost 200 applications, three responses, no interviews.

She hated this.

By 10am, her butt was sore from the chair, so she stepped outside barefoot. The grass was cool and soft under her feet. A butterfly landed on the zinnias beneath her bedroom window. A cardinal snacked on the dried sunflower she’d forgotten to snip. Little things like this kept her from spiraling, thinking life would never get better. She really should get back to applying for jobs, but she needed a little more sunshine. Just a few more minutes of real sunlight before the weight of desperation etched her face in the glow of her laptop screen.

She slapped a mosquito and started walking down the sidewalk. A short stroll around the block would help.

“No interviews yet,” she told herself.

Some cats yowled somewhere down the street; a dog barked at nothing; some squirrels chased each other up an oak tree.

Then her pocket buzzed. Without thinking, she answered, “Hello?”

She could hear breathing.

“Hello?” Sharper now.

A small sound- was that a whimper?

Her throat tightened. “Who is this?”

The whisper came, ragged and desperate. “Please. Please come get me.”

“Who is this?!” But the line went dead.

She looked at the phone, confused. That was a prank, right?

She tapped to the missed calls – 23 calls, all from the same incoming number.

Her thumb hovered heavy over the voicemail icon. 17 messages waited. She tapped the first one.

“It’s me. Just listen. They moved the drop. Court Square, by the fountain. Midnight. Get there if you can. Let me know you got this.”

Who was this? What was the drop for? She tapped the second message.

“I know you’re pissed. Forget yesterday. You know what’s at stake if we don’t get this done.”

Intrigued, she kept tapping through the messages.

“You could at least text. They have the list. If it’s not secured tonight, it’s over.”

“I saw someone following the courier. Be careful.”

“Why didn’t you show? I can’t do this alone. We can go back to not talking tomorrow. I need your help tonight!”

“I tried to get hold of Micah. I get that I was wrong. You both have every right to be angry. But tonight is not the night to be petty. Call me back.”

Jesus. What were these people into? Why are they so angry with whoever was supposed to receive these messages? Was it a love triangle gone wrong? She smiled as she crossed the street, reaching her house. She crossed the lawn and continued listening.

“I think they’re following me. I made the drop, but they didn’t leave afterward. I tried to sneak away, in the shadows, but they’re following me. I’m heading for the library. Come get me.”

Huh. That one sounded more fearful. The next was a frantic whisper.

“Are you coming? They are on foot now. I’ve got to keep moving. My location is on. Please hurry. They’ll kill me if they catch me.”

She sat in the sunny clover patch and looked at the time stamps between messages. The first few were exactly 30 minutes apart, starting at 10pm. The rest were randomly spaced, from midnight until dawn, some only minutes apart, others with spans of nearly an hour in between, each more panicky than the last.

“I can hear footsteps outside. They’re so close. God, I wish you’d pick up. Please.”

“If you’re ignoring me because of our fight, forget it. I’m sorry. You can’t leave me out here on my own because of that. We’ve got to find Pastor Jeffrey before they hurt him. Just answer the damn phone!”

The eleventh message was just stuttered heavy breathing that suddenly stopped – their breath held as the sound of footsteps crunched by.

The twelfth sounded resigned, but was still a whisper. “I don’t know where else to hide. I don’t think I can get past them. Make sure you follow the protocol. No deviations. If they find you –“ Click.

“Black sedan. Plate starts with 3AH8. Can’t see the rest.”

“Why won’t you answer? I hope you’re okay. I’m so sorry. Look. Memorize the numbers from the file, then burn it. Call me when you get this.”

A bumblebee buzzed around her toes. Her heart hammered in her chest.

“Call Patton. She, Micah, and Tim can help you, if I don’t make it. Babe… I’m sorry.”

The sixteenth message was the sound of feet sprinting across pavement, fabric swishing against the phone’s microphone, a thud and grunt as the runner took a tumble. Voices in the distance giving chase. Terrified whimpers. It lasted four minutes, 37 seconds. It seemed like much longer.

The last one, just after sunrise, gulping back tears: “I think I broke my ankle. I can’t run anymore…. …Shit. They’re here.”

That was the last message, a little over five hours ago. She stared at the glowing screen, not knowing what to do.

Call the police, right? Was that the right thing to do? But she didn’t know who the caller was, or where. She called the number, hoping it wouldn’t ring and give away the girl’s location to whoever was hunting her. No rings – straight to voicemail.

A butterfly landed on her knee. She decided to call the police and let them figure it out. But before she could, a car rolled up on her curb. Smooth and slow. A black sedan. And the tag started with 3AH8.