23 Minutes Read Online Free PDF

zeroes in on them.
    â€œHello,” she says, “I’m sorry to bother you—but, please, I need help.” Bad choice of words , she reprimands herself, even as they’re coming out of her mouth. What if the woman thinks she’s asking for money? She should have thought this out beforehand. Hurriedly she adds, “Do you have a phone I could please, please, please use? It’s really important. A local call. It won’t take a minute. Please.” She hates groveling but figures her pride is less important than a life.
    The boy, who looks all of about eleven, demands, “Why don’t you have your own phone?” and the mother drapes her arm around his shoulders in what might be a case of oh-isn’t-my-boy-the-most-precious-thing-ever pride, or might be gentle chastisement. Zoe’s own mother, whom she hasn’t seen in almost two years, was never gentle with her chastisements. Meanwhile, the little girl reachesover to clutch her mother’s free hand. Clearly, Zoe makes her nervous. Clearly, this child has had impressed on her the dangers of speaking to strangers.
    Still, Zoe hopes the mother is thinking that should her own children ever be in trouble, some friendly soul would be willing to help them. And, in fact, the woman digs a phone out of her purse and, though somewhat reluctantly, hands it to Zoe.
    Zoe stares at it for a moment before the woman explains, “Press the green button, then the numbers you need.”
    It isn’t that the phone is too complicated to figure out: Zoe has been distracted by noting the time—1:22. Assuming the first woman was right, Zoe has squandered only five minutes. There’s still plenty of time.
    Except at that exact moment, the sky opens up. Zoe, the woman, and the children rush to huddle under the nearest store’s awning. The woman sighs, no doubt already regretting the generous impulse that has left her and her kids standing in the rain with this phone-borrowing stranger.
    Zoe presses the green button, then 911.
    Whether the woman can see which numbers Zoe has pressed or guesses by how few have been pressed, she raises her eyebrows, looking a bit apprehensive.
    â€œ911,” the dispatcher announces. “What number are you calling from?”
    Why do they always ask that? Zoe wonders. She knows for a fact that the number has shown up on their equipment. She knows this from the time when Rasheena and Delia were arguing, while Mrs. Davies was in the kitchen, and Delia grabbed the phone and hit 911 before one of the other girls was able to get the phone backand hang up. But still, two minutes later, someone from 911 called back to see what the emergency was. And even dispatched a police car, despite the fact that everyone—including Delia—said, “Oops. Never mind. Mistake.” Mrs. Davies had not been amused.
    So now the dispatcher has asked for the number, and Zoe says, “I don’t know. I’m calling from somebody else’s cell phone. Do you need me to find out?”
    â€œNo, that’s all right,” the man on the other end of the line says. “What’s your emergency?”
    Zoe takes a deep breath. “I saw a man with a gun. Entering Spencerport Savings and Loan on Independence Street.”
    The woman whose phone she’s borrowed throws a protective arm around each of her children, even though Independence Street is two and a half blocks away, and the bank is halfway down the block after turning the corner.
    â€œNo, I’m not in the bank,” Zoe answers when the dispatcher asks. In response to his next question, she tries to remember what the man looked like. “I don’t know. Forty, fifty.” Old people are old; how is she supposed to be able to tell how old? “White guy … no, I couldn’t see his hair. He had a hoodie and a baseball cap … tan raincoat … taller than me,”—which is ridiculous since the dispatcher