Dean sighed. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache building right behind his eyes. He pulled out his cheap smartphone and dialed the non-emergency police line. He spent 20 minutes on hold listening to distorted elevator music. When a dispatcher finally answered, she sounded as exhausted as he felt.
I got an elderly woman here, disoriented, wandering in the rain, Dean said. Name? Martha doesn't know her last name. Doesn't know her address. Mentions a daughter named Audrey.
Keyboard clacking on the other end. We don't have any silver alerts matching that description tonight, sir. It's Friday night. We're backed up with bar fights and two major pileups on the I5. An officer can come collect her, but they won't get there for at least 4 hours.
Once they do, she'll sit in holding until social services opens on Monday. Dean looked at Martha. She had curled her legs up onto the couch and pulled the wool blanket tightly around her shoulders. She was holding a cup of chamomile tea in both hands, letting the steam warm her face. Her eyes were closed.
She looked impossibly frail. A holding cell, fluorescent lights, drunks screaming in the next cage. Dean closed his eyes. "Never mind," he told the dispatcher. "I'll take her to a precinct in the morning," he hung up.
"Martha," he called out. She opened her eyes. You're sleeping on the couch tonight. Tomorrow we figure out where you belong. Morning came too fast, heralded by the aggressive screech of a garbage truck backing down the alley.
Dean woke up on a sleeping pad on the floor. His back screamed in protest as he sat up. He glanced at the bed. Noah was already awake, sitting cross-legged, staring intently at the couch. Martha was sitting up, fully dressed in the dry clothes Dean had given her last night.
A pair of his old sweatpants and an oversized flannel shirt. She looked like a scarecrow swimming in plaid. He says his name is Noah, Martha said to Dean, her voice much stronger than the night before. There was a sharp clear light in her eyes today. He talks too much, Dean grunted, standing up and stretching.
I didn't say anything, Noah protested. She asked me. I asked him if he wanted eggs, Martha said, standing up. She walked over to the tiny kitchenette with a surprising amount of authority. Your refrigerator is a tragedy, Dean.
Half a carton of milk, questionable butter, and a single jar of mustard. How do you feed a growing boy? Dean rubbed his face. We manage and you don't need to cook. I'll make cereal.
Nonsense. Martha opened the cupboards, finally locating a half empty box of oatmeal. Oatmeal it is, with a little brown sugar. For the next two days, this became the bizarre rhythm of Dean's life. He hadn't taken her to the precinct.
When Saturday morning rolled around, he had walked her down to the shop to keep an eye on her while he worked. He dialed the police station again, filed an official missing person report over the phone, and gave them his address. The death sergeant told him they would run her description, but unless a family member filed a matching report, it was a waiting game. "Keep her there if she's not a danger," the cop had advised. "Better than the shelter.