Then it will be 4:01. Then 4:02. The others will grip each other’s hands and hold each other close. Shut their eyes and count to ten. Then twenty. Then thirty. No one has told us what happened. Where is Gleamwood Gardens? Is it in the river? Or is it safe? Nothing matters until we know. Before four, the wait was slow and full of grief. After four, it is infinitely painful. I squeeze your hand so hard you get bruises. The need to know is overwhelming. It feels like a pot of water about to boil. It breaks the silence.
