Chapter 2 - Moving Mountains
Derek had been there since the day we brought Noah home from the hospital wrapped in a pale blue fleece blanket. When Lena and I went through our bitter divorce two years later, it was Derek who showed up at my bare apartment with a pizza, a truck full of furniture, and a quiet promise that we would pull through. He taught Noah how to give a proper fist-bump. He spent three hours in my driveway fixing Noah's tricycle after he bent a training wheel. He had sat beside Noah's bed for nine straight hours during a terrifying croup fever when Noah was two.
Derek didn't just love my son. He protected him.
The phone rang once.
"Hey, what's up?" Derek answered. His background was quiet—he was a master carpenter who ran his own high-end custom cabinetry shop, often out doing site visits.
"Derek," I choked out, tearing through the garage level toward my truck. "I just got a call from Noah. Lena’s boyfriend, Travis... he hit Noah with a baseball bat. Noah said his arm is broken. Travis took the phone and hung up."
There was a tiny, sharp pause on the line. The kind of silence that precedes a storm.
"Where are you?" Derek asked. His tone didn't rise in panic; it flattened into something terrifyingly focused.
"I'm downtown. Stuck in the parking garage. I'm twenty-five minutes away minimum," I pleaded, unlocking my truck door with a desperate beep. "Where are you?"
"I'm on North Oak. Doing a measurement for a job," Derek said instantly. "I'm about five minutes from your house."
"Go now," I sobbed, throwing my truck into drive and tires screeching against the polished concrete floor. "Go now, Derek, please!"
"I'm already moving," Derek said.
Years ago, before his shoulder tore out in a regional tournament, Derek had competed in amateur mixed martial arts. He wasn't a violent man—in fact, he was usually the quietest guy in any room. But he knew how to move under extreme pressure. He understood combat, control, and urgency.
"I'm dialing 911 on my secondary screen right now," I said, turning onto the congested city boulevard, lay on my horn as a delivery van cut me off.
"Do it," Derek commanded. "I'll keep this line open on my headset. Don't hang up on me."
I patched the emergency dispatcher into my car’s console while keeping Derek live on my secondary line.
"911, what is your emergency?" a calm female voice asked.
"My four-year-old son has been violently assaulted by his mother's boyfriend at 1422 Sycamore Lane!" I shouted over the hum of my engine. "The suspect hit him with a baseball bat! The child is injured! The man is still inside the house!"
"Sir, calm down," the dispatcher instructed. "Are units en route? I am dispatching officers right now. Is the suspect armed with anything else?"
"He has a bat! He threatened the child before disconnecting the line! My brother is arriving at the scene in two minutes—"
"Sir, instruct your brother NOT to enter the residence," the dispatcher interrupted firmly. "Law enforcement is on the way. Entering a high-risk situation with an armed suspect can escalate violence."
I looked at my dashboard screen. Derek was listening to every word over the bridge line.
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"Derek... did you hear that?" I whispered.
There was no answer from Derek except the distinct, roar of his heavy V8 engine revving to its absolute limit as he blew through a suburban intersection.
