She was the voice that picked up when you dialed 911 after dark. She was the voice on the radio that told the deputies and the fire trucks and the ambulances where to go, and how fast, and what they would find when they got there.
I did not think of it that way growing up. Not even a little.
I thought of it as the reason there was tinfoil taped over her bedroom window. I thought of it as the reason Dad made supper every night. I thought of it as the reason I had to be quiet in my own house until three in the afternoon, tiptoeing past her door with my sneakers in my hand. I thought of it as the reason she missed every Friday night football game I played from seventh grade on, because Friday nights were the bad nights, and she never once asked off.
