God's Gonna Trouble The Water
All I have is an email address. Not Hannah's, but that of a friend who's made a quickie GoFundMe site to help out the family. The amount in the donation box at the bottom of the screen is impressive, over fifteen thousand dollars and rising, pledged in tiny increments, drib by loving drab, many by strangers.
Finally a message comes in. Hannah's fundraising friend. She sends me a phone number, and says good luck. Tommy, Hannah's son, picks up on the first ring.
He's fourteen, which means we've also never met either. I introduce myself, ask him if his mother is there, but she's not, he says. He doesn't recognize me, but promises to give her my number. Crossing into Massachusetts, we're now getting closer to the point of no return, the fork in the road where we must choose. Boston to the east, or New York to the south. Coast Guard search and rescue pilots call this bingo, when there's only enough fuel to turn around and get home.
This is our bingo, I think, as we approach the city limits of Greenfield, a middling town on the map that my niece and I know quite well.
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