The Safe House

The sunset was shrouded by black clouds. Lightning cracked and torrents of rain fell. From our second-story window I could see stalled cars caught in the flash flood. A lone station wagon struggled through the water and headed up our street. It stopped for a moment in front of our house, then pulled into our driveway. I raced to the door.

Two teenage girls stood there. “May I use your phone?” one asked. “I need to call my dad to let him know we're all right.”

“Sure,” I said, and let them in. While I fixed hot cocoa and the girls made their calls, my husband, Paul, paced the kitchen floor. The newspaper office where he worked was flooding and he was waiting to hear from the facility manager. “Norm is at home,” Paul said, “and he promised to check in with me. Why hasn't he called?”

The girls finished with the phone, and Paul stopped pacing. “My dad told us to wait out the storm here,” one teen said as she sipped her cocoa. “He was a little worried about our being in a stranger’s house, so I gave him your number. Is that okay?”

I nodded, and just then the phone rang. Paul went to answer it. After a few seconds, he returned.

“It was Norm, all right,” he said, “but he didn't want to talk about the office.” A strange look came over his face. “He wanted to thank me for keeping his daughter and her friend safe.”