Contact

Keystrokes and pixels. Her phone to my inbox. Casually transmitted with the flick of a thumb. Three months ago, a daytime SOS still would have meant a detention. Now it's a lifeline cast out with a click of Send. A secret cry from a mostly-grown girl with nowhere much to turn. That much is clear since she's coming to me now that the doctors have told her dying mother, "Sorry, that's all we can do."

I stare at the message, beg it to reconsider. Re-read and hope to find some less desperate news. No luck. Now what. How do I respond to this burdened child, who may be the one--who will almost certainly be the one--to explain to her sister that they are about to lose their mother? My mind is empty and my fingers are still and the time stamp on her note is aging.

I click across windows, rearrange virtual letters and half-formed thoughts, tell a friend. Take advantage of my luxury long as I dare. Come back and wade in with a wish and a prayer. I don't know what to say; I say it. The reply is near instantaneous.

And then it's a dozen messages. Trying to ask but not pry, suggest. Be some kind of comfort. Offer or guide. A distraction. Be whatever it could possibly be that would lead her to my name in that phone. We don't have that much history. Just enough, maybe. A contact. A chance. A connection.