dumped. On the other hand, I won’t be able to live with myself if not calling means she actually gets hurt.
I call the number, entering my Warrior Nation pin number when prompted. As the line rings, I look around for an inconspicuous place to talk, since I guess I shouldn’t really be blabbing sensitive information in public, but the groaning buses and screeching train tracks rolling past Chicago Ave make it hard to hear much of anything, so hopefully I’m okay.
“Warrior Nation emergency response. Am I speaking to Claire Rice?” a chipper female voice answers.
Whoa. I didn’t expect the operator to call me by name, though I guess the Warriors have way more sophisticated technology beyond caller ID. The emotion of the moment scrambles my memory, mixing up the prompt I’m supposed to deliver in times of crisis. “Hi, um, yes. I’d like to report a”—Broken? Endangered? Stolen?—“missing hero.”
“And which Warrior is this in reference to?” the operator asks, a keyboard clacking in the background.
“Girl Power,” I choke out, again tortured by the thought of Joy in peril.
“One moment, please, while I retrieve her most current status.” She puts me on hold as the Warrior Nation theme music plays, a blaring set of triumphant horns that would normally bring me comfort, but today, the loud brass rattles rather than inspires. What I could really use is some gentle harp strings or whale sounds. Either would be more soothing right now.
The music cuts out abruptly. “Claire? Thank you for holding,” the operator resumes. “Joy checked in at her home address about ten minutes ago. According to her report, she and Vaporizer intervened in a bank robbery that turned violent. She sustained a head injury but is in stable condition with Warrior Nation medical personnel stationed at her home.”
“Injured, injured, injured” is all I hear as the woman goes into autopilot, reading me a brief guide on stress-relief techniques and how to deal with trauma. But no deep breathing or visualization exercises will get me through this. I need to get to Joy, NOW, and see how I can help.
*
In the cab ride over, my head swelled with grand gestures of healing and support: me, kneeling at Joy’s bedside, gently dabbing her forehead with a warm wash cloth while whispering words of encouragement. But now, standing outside her South Side apartment, I feel ridiculous, completely unequipped to handle whatever is waiting on the other side of her front door. Who am I kidding? I’m not a healer. I once fainted while trying to get my first aid badge in Girl Scouts, the only patch I never earned. The operator said Joy was stable, but how severe was her injury? Did she get punched in the face, or is her brain leaking out her ears? Neither option is acceptable, but the truth is, she’s hurt. How can I help her get through this when I’m not even sure I can stomach it?
I swallow hard as I ring the buzzer. The operator gave me the address, though I’d hoped my first visit to Joy’s place would be under better circumstances, like a Netflix-and-chill session. But there are no smiles when her mom answers the door, eyeing me like she was afraid the grim reaper would be on the other side.
“Yes?” she says, voice sounding like it’s been through a rock tumbler. Despite the worry lines crisscrossing her face, it’s clear Joy gets her good looks from her mom. They share the same thick golden hair and voluptuous shape, though her mom’s blue eyes lack the sparkle I’m so used to seeing in Joy’s.
“Hi. Um, I’m Claire, I…work with Joy.”
Her face hardens. “Did Warrior Nation send you?”
My heart sinks a little when she doesn’t recognize my name. Part of me hoped Joy would’ve mentioned me at home. “No, not officially, but, um…can I see her? We’re friends.”
I recognize the dead-tired look on her face, like she’s been on a red-eye to hell and back. It’s the same way my mom looked at me when I got home from my kidnapping, a mix of desperation and despair spiked with horror. Whatever happened to Joy must have shaken her family to the core, and my mounting terror threatens to churn up whatever’s left in my stomach.
Her mom nods, cautiously opening the door farther to let me through, and I’m surprised by what I see. Joy’s apartment is smaller than small, technically a one-bedroom but with a small kitchenette in the living room. A messy Murphy bed hangs