Okay

.33.

I'm exhausted.

My visions a little bleary as I make my way down the hallway, thankful there's no windows in it so the sun can leave me alone for a moment. Birdie's hand is in mine but she's fairing much better than I am after two hours of basketball and roaming the city for the past few hours. Jamming my key in the lock, I'm propelled to look the short distance to Mrs. McDonald's door where my hand freezes and my mind halts.

Is that sunlight? 

How is that sunlight striped across the floor?

"What's the matter?" Birdie's voice is muffled in my head as it tries to break through my thoughts.

Is the door open?

My heart jumps in my chest and I abandon my unopened apartment for hers.

"Mrs. McDonald?" I call, knocking the door as I lean my ear closer.

There's a screaming whine sounding from inside and I shove the door open, eyes scanning the immaculate little apartment. The pink kettles on the stove, a high pitched whistle as it rattles on the coils. I turn it off, moving the kettle to a cold burner as I survey the rest of the kitchen. There's a tea cup out, a bag prepped, the string hanging down the side.

"Mrs. McDonald?" I call again.

My hearts slamming in my chest, the fear of finding the feisty old woman hurt or worse dead unnerves me as I pick through her apartment.

"Drew, whats going on?" Birdie asks behind me.

"Mrs. McDonald?" Pushing open her bedroom door, my throat is tight as I say "it's Drew, your neighbor."

I'm met with silence other than the soft inquiries from Birdie. My brain hasn't quite been able to articulate what's wrong but I can feel something is.

"Mrs. McDonald?" I open every door like maybe she's tucked in a closet hiding. Why, I don't know but I also don't dwell on it.

"Talk to me Drew." Birdie insists when I step back out into the hallway.

Ducking into the small bathroom, I yank open the curtain on an inhale, releasing a strained breath when it's empty and the realization hits that if she's not in her apartment she might be wandering the city lost and confused.

My heart sinks.

"I have to find her." I say.

"Mrs. McDonald? Who is she?" Birdie follows after me as I march to the kitchen.

"Try and find a phone number for someone named Angela." I urgently tell Birdie, yanking open drawers and rifling through them.

"Why?"

But even as she asks the question she does as I've said. My hearts pounding, fear trying to crawl through my body as my mind imagines all the scenarios that Mrs. McDonald might have found herself in. I'm starting to get desperate as we make our way through the kitchen drawers.

"She has dementia and lives alone." Finally I'm able to answer Birdie. "Angela's her daughter. Do you see anything?"

"Not yet." I can hear the fear that I'm feeling filling Birdie's voice.

I start sifting through a stack of papers that have been shoved in a drawer but I come up empty.

"Hannah." My voice cracks, my hands are shaking and all I can think about is how I'm wasting fucking time sifting through shit for a number of a person who probably can't help anyway.

"We'll find the number." Birdie says.

Slamming the drawer shut with more force than necessary, I stride out of the apartment.