My headphones are designed to cancel out the world. They can reduce the roar of a subway train to a gentle hum. But they couldn't do anything about the muffled, electronic chirping coming from the other side of my living room wall.
It was Sarah’s cell phone.
It had been ringing, vibrating, and stopping, then ringing again for three hours.
I sat on my couch, staring at the blank TV screen. Outside, the afternoon rain was hammering against the brickwork of the duplex, a relentless gray wash that made 2:00 PM look like twilight. But I wasn't listening to the rain. I was fixated on that vibration.
Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
It was a low frequency, probably around 120 Hz, resonating through the floorboards. To anyone else, it would be background noise. To me, it was a drill to the temple.
"She’s sleeping," I told myself, rubbing my temples. "She just pulled a twenty-four-hour shift. She’s dead to the world. Leave it alone."
But Sarah was a nurse. Nurses don't leave their phones on full volume when they sleep. They silence them. They need the rest. And they definitely don't ignore a call for three hours unless something is wrong.
I stood up, pacing the length of my small rug. The conversation in the lobby yesterday replayed in my head. I thought it was you.
I walked over to the wall. I pressed my ear against the cold plaster.
Silence. Then—Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
"Sarah?" I called out. I felt ridiculous. "Hey, Sarah? Your phone is going nuts."
Nothing. No footsteps. No groggy "shut up." Just the rain and the buzz.
Then I caught it again. That smell.
It was stronger than yesterday. It seeped through the electrical outlet near the baseboard, hitting my nose with the subtlety of a wet dog. It was sour, yeasty, like a carton of milk left in a hot car, mixed with the damp, earthy stink of wet drywall.
My stomach turned. Logic tried to intervene—maybe she had garbage she forgot to take out? Maybe a pipe burst?
I grabbed my keys. I couldn't sit here anymore. My skin felt too tight for my body.
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.