The Twenty-Minute Drive

Chapter One: The Twenty-Minute Drive

In the middle of the budget meeting, my phone vibrated on the table in the conference room. The vibration was so strong that it sent ripples across the water in a plastic cup. The conference room smelled of stale coffee, dried whiteboard ink, and lemon detergent left behind by the night janitor. Outside the glass walls, printers hummed low under fluorescent lights.

I glanced at the screen. Noah. My son is only four years old.

Lena and I covered the refrigerator with picture cards to teach him that an “emergency” never meant spilled juice, a dead tablet, or a toy stuck under the couch.

He knew very well that unless something really bad happened, he could never call me while I was at work. I pressed the first call. Then, the phone vibrated again. My stomach dropped. I got through immediately.

“Hey, kid. You okay?”

For a second, all I heard was staccato breathing. Tiny. With a cry. It was like he was covering his mouth with one hand. Then, Noah begged in a breathy voice:

“Dad... please come home.”

My chair jerked backwards and scraped the ground. Everyone in the conference room looked at me.

“What happened?”

“Mom is not at home.”

“Who’s with you?”

“Travis.”

Lena’s boyfriend.

“What did Travis do to you?”

Noah cried harder.

“He hit me with a baseball bat. My arm hurt.”

The world around me left me in an instant.

“Where are you now?”

“In the hallway.”

“Can you come outside?”

“Can’t.”

“Is Travis anywhere near you?”

“He said if I cried, he would beat me.”

A man’s roar rang through his mobile phone:

“Who are you talking to?!”

Noah gasped.

“Give me the phone!”

The call is interrupted. For a second, the conference room was as quiet as time had frozen. The pen hangs above the notepad. A female colleague from the accounting department paused in mid-air while holding a cup of coffee.

The air conditioner made a soft “click” sound.

Someone’s cufflinks tapped lightly on the table. I stood up.

“My son was attacked. I’m leaving.”

The manager’s mouth was half open. No matter what he originally planned to say, he swallowed it completely the moment he saw my face. I held my car keys and cell phone in my hands and strode towards the corridor.

It was 2:14pm on Tuesday. Call records showed two missed calls and one call that lasted thirty-one seconds. At that moment, I didn’t care at all about the evidence. I only care about distance.

Under normal traffic conditions, my office is a twenty-minute drive from Lena’s home. But the traffic downtown that afternoon was decidedly unusual. A delivery truck blocked the one-way street. The rain began to wet the streets. Every red light between me and Noah felt like a locked door.

The only person who was closer was my brother. Derek has been in Noah’s life since the day Lena and I brought him home, wrapped in a blue hospital blanket. He was the one who fixed the training wheels on Noah’s first bicycle.

It was he who stayed with her through the night when the fever persisted. He was the one who remembered the names of every dinosaur, because Noah always disliked adults who couldn’t tell the difference between Triceratops and other dinosaurs.

Derek competed in the mixed martial arts (MMA) regional circuit for six years before a shoulder injury forced him to retire. What made him scary was never the violence. But control. I once witnessed him break up a parking lot confrontation without throwing a punch.

I dialed his number as I ran to the elevator. He answered on the second ring.

“Hello.”

“Noah called me.”

My voice is shaking.

“Travis hit him in the arm with a baseball bat.”

There was dead silence. Then Derek’s tone changed. Calm. Restraint.

“Where is Lena?”

“Not at home.”

“Where are you?”

“Twenty minutes away. Where are you?”

“Fifteen minutes from there.”

“Go right away.”

“I’m already moving.”

The elevator ride down was hopelessly long. I kept pressing the call button even though I knew it was useless. As soon as the elevator doors opened, I walked across the parking lot and dialed the emergency number.

“My four-year-old son was attacked.”

The dispatcher asked for an address.

“The adult suspect may still be inside the home. His name is Travis Cole.”

“Is the child conscious?”

“He just called me.”

“Are you aware that there were weapons at the scene?”

“A baseball bat.”

“Are you driving?”

“Yes.”

“Please drive safely. Police and medical units are on their way.”

“My brother is closer.”

“Tell him, please try not to have a direct conflict if you can avoid it.”

This sentence almost broke me. Avoid conflict. It was as if a man could calmly arrange every step properly and thoughtfully when he heard a child crying for help. My other call line flickered to life.

It’s Derek. I connected the two calls.

“I’m two blocks away,” he said.

“Hold the call.”

His breathing slowed.

“I see the house.”

The car door slammed shut.

“Derek?”

“I’m already on the porch.”

The dispatcher warned on across the connection:

“If the suspect is armed, please do not enter.”

Then I heard Derek kicking open the front door. A sound. The door lock shattered. The second kick slammed the door open. Noah’s scream tore through the receiver:

“Uncle Derek!”

Then came Travis’ curse:

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Derek didn’t answer right away. The sound of leather shoes stepping on the ground moved rapidly in the room. The wood made a dull sound as it hit the wall. Noah sobbed:

“Don’t let him hit me again.”

Derek’s voice was low and clear:

“Put the baseball bat down.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“From the second you laid your hands on him, this became my business.”

I drove through an intersection where the light had just turned green. The dispatcher urged me to slow down. My hands were tightly gripping the steering wheel. Travis let out a growl during the open call that Derek didn’t hang up on.

Something heavy slid across the floor. Then Derek said:

“Noah, stay behind me.”

A woman cried in the background. It’s Lena. She rushed back.

“Travis, stop it!”

The sound of distant police sirens penetrated both phones at the same time. Derek finally said:

“Think carefully about your next steps.”

Then, all that was left on the call was rapid breathing. I drove into Lena’s street and saw the door wide open at a glance. Derek was holding one arm across Travis' chest, suppressing him tightly.

The baseball bat was abandoned near the entrance to the kitchen. Noah leaned against the wall, his left hand tightly protecting his arm. Lena stood a few steps away, covering her face with her hands and crying bitterly.

I pushed the door open and jumped out before the car came to a complete stop. I rushed into the house.

“Noah.”

He raised his face.

“Dad.”

I dropped to my knees beside him. He held on to my jacket with his good hand.

“I called you.”

“You did a great job.”

“It hurts.”

“I know.”

Behind me, Travis sneered through his heavy breathing:

“He’s doing very well.”

Derek calmly put more distance between Travis and us. I looked at this man who beat my child. My body instinctively wanted to rush down the hallway. Derek noticed.

“Michael.”

Only one word. This is a warning. Noah now needed a useful father. Rather than a handcuffed prisoner. I put a protective hand on my son’s back. The police car pulled up outside the house.

Travis looked towards the door. Derek was keenly aware of it.

“Don’t move.”

For the first time, Travis' face showed panic. Immediately afterwards, the police rushed in with their hands on their holsters.

“Everyone, stand back and put your hands up.”

Derek immediately let go and raised his arms high. Travis pointed at us:

“They broke into private houses!”

Lena murmured with a cry:

“This is my house.”

The leading police officer glanced at the baseball bat on the ground. Another glance at Noah’s swollen arm. Then he looked at the kicked-in door.

“Who touched the child?”

Noah buried his face in my coat. He didn’t even look up, just held out a trembling finger. He pointed at Travis.