by M. A. George
It was late afternoon, and we were heading south on I-15—making our way back to New Mexico via Idaho and Utah—when the call finally came from Sabela. I answered, ready to reprimand her for taking so long to turn her phone back on. I stopped in my tracks at the sound of her panic-stricken voice.
“Palta!” She seemed to be beside herself with worry.
“Calm down, Sabela,” I reassured her. “We’re still okay, it’s just—”
“He’s gone, Palta,” she cut me off mid-sentence, her voice still shaking with distress. “I don’t know what to do!” It was the most frantic I had ever heard her.
“Who’s gone?” I tried to make sense of her hysterics.
“Father…” She was trying to will herself to coherence as she took a deep breath to continue. “They took him…”