They buried me up to my neck in the backyard dirt for days while I was pregnant, pouring water and insects over me as “punishment for disobedience.”

Thomas’s hand froze inches beneath the damp sod. His fingers brushed the smooth, cold plastic of the freezer bag, right where my right shoulder met the packed earth. The blue-white illumination from the phone screen cut sharp shadows across his knuckles, turning his skin the color of skim milk.

For one terrifying second, time stopped dead.

The crickets in the tall grass at the edge of the property went dead silent. The wind dropped. Even the low, rhythmic hum of the neighbor’s air conditioner three houses down seemed to switch off.

“Thomas?” Eleanor called out from the back doorway, her voice tight with sudden, nervous irritation. “What are you doing down in the dirt? Get her out of there if she’s going to start acting hysterical again. The sun’s going down, and my sciatica is acting up.”

Thomas didn't answer her. His eyes were wide, fixed on the dirt beneath his palm as if he were staring at a venomous snake coil out of the dark.

“Thomas,” Mara repeated, her lawn chair squeaking as she shifted her weight. “Is something wrong with the phone? Whose phone is that?”

“Shut up,” Thomas hissed, his voice dropping into a harsh, trembling rasp. He clawed at the soil, his fingernails gouging into the mud as he tried to yank the plastic bag free.

I didn't panic. For days, every ounce of my energy had been conserved for this exact microsecond. My right hand, buried deep beside my hip, curled into a fist. The straw between my lips tasted of dried mud and copper, but my breathing remained slow, shallow, and controlled.

“Keep him talking,” the dispatcher’s voice had said. But there was no need to talk. The phone was already unlocked, the line was open, and every single word spoken in that backyard was traveling across cellular towers straight to county dispatch.

“You recording me?” Thomas snarled, his face twisting into an ugly mask of pure, unadulterated panic. He ripped the freezer bag out of the earth, flinging wet soil across my face and into my open eyes.

I blinked against the stinging grit, refusing to close my eyelids. I stared straight up at him through the twilight.

“You little bitch,” he whispered. He lunged forward, his heavy hands gripping the dirt on either side of my head, pressing down so hard the earth collapsed inward against my collarbones. “Who were you talking to? Who were you on the phone with?!”

“Thomas, stop!” Eleanor shrieked, finally scurrying down the back steps, her sensible orthopedic shoes sinking into the lawn. “The neighbors will see! What do you think you’re doing making a scene out here in broad daylight?”

“She recorded us!” Thomas screamed, his voice cracking with a sudden, unhinged fury. He held up the glowing phone, the dispatch screen still active, the green audio waveform bouncing rhythmically as the dispatcher on the other end repeated: “Hello? Sir? Are you at the location? State your name.”

Thomas stared at the screen as if it were a bomb about to detonate. With a wild, desperate yell, he smashed the phone against the corner of the brick patio, splintering the glass into a thousand jagged spiderwebs. The screen flickered, went black, and died.

He turned back to me, his chest heaving, his eyes bloodshot and bulging.

“That doesn't matter,” he breathed, dropping to his knees beside my buried body, his fingers hovering dangerously close to my throat. “No one believes you, Nora. You’re unstable. Everyone in this town knows how sick you are. We can bury you deeper. We can—"

WEE-WOO. WEE-WOO.

The sharp, high-pitched wail of a siren cut through the evening air, bouncing off the suburban houses like a physical blow. A second siren joined it, louder, sharper, coming from the main boulevard. Then a third.