For three seconds, there was only the sound of breathing. Not the steady rhythm of someone sleeping, but the ragged, wet gasps of someone trying to swallow air between convulsions.

“Dad,” she choked out. “Dad, please. Please come get me.”

I sat up so fast the room spun. “Emily? Where are you? What’s happening?”

“I’m at Mark’s parents’ house,” she whispered. Her voice sounded thin, terrified, like she was speaking from inside a closet. “I can’t… I can’t leave.”

“What do you mean you can’t leave? Put Mark on the phone.”

“No!” The panic in her voice spiked, sharp and jagged. “No, don’t. Just… please, Dad. I need you.”

Before I could ask another question—before I could ask if she was hurt, if she was safe, if I should call the police—the line went dead.