“Let us go into the living room,” Gustavo said, carrying his own cup. “The reception is better near the front of the house.”
They sat in the dim living room, watching the sheets of rain sweep across the driveway. The ancient landline phone on the mahogany side table suddenly rang, its shrill bell cutting through the sound of the wind.
Marcos reached for the receiver on the second ring.
“Is this the Almeida residence?” a gravelly voice asked.
“Yes, this is Marcos.”
“Mr. Almeida, this is Officer Harrison with the state police,” the voice said. “We have an emergency situation on Route Nine.”
Marcos stood up, his hand gripping the receiver so tightly his knuckles turned white.
“What happened?” Marcos asked. “Is my wife okay?”
“There was a single-vehicle rollover near the exit five ramp,” the officer said. “We need you to come to the hospital immediately.”
“I am on my way,” Marcos said, slamming the receiver down.
He ran toward the front door, grabbing his heavy wool coat from the wooden peg in the hallway. Gustavo followed him closely, his phone still gripped tightly in his right hand.
In the driveway, the downpour soaked through Marcos’s shirt within seconds. He reached for the driver’s side handle of his sedan, his fingers slipping on the wet metal.
“Let me drive, Marcos,” Gustavo shouted over the roar of the wind, grabbing Marcos by the shoulder. “The roads are completely flooded, and you are in no condition to handle the highway.”
“Get out of the way, Gustavo,” Marcos said, pushing his brother-in-law’s hand off his arm. “She is my wife.”
“The police said she was dead on impact, Marcos,” Gustavo said, his voice cracking slightly as he stepped back into the rain.
Marcos froze, his hand still resting on the cold car door handle.
