Then I heard a siren.
Someone at that party had called 911. I still do not know who. But that sound cutting through the classic rock and the backyard laughter was the only thing in the world telling me I was not entirely alone on that driveway, and I have thought about it many times since, that anonymous act of basic human recognition, someone looking at me and deciding I was worth a phone call.
I need to go back further, because what happened on that driveway did not start on that driveway. It started five years earlier in a break room that smelled like burnt coffee and microwave popcorn.
I met Leo through a coworker named Dana, who described him as one of the good ones, a phrase that should perhaps require more rigorous definition than it usually receives. He worked as an inventory manager at a regional auto parts distributor outside Covington. Steady job, steady paycheck, the kind of man who showed up on time and remembered your birthday. When we started dating he was attentive and thoughtful in ways that felt, at twenty-seven, like evidence of fundamental character. He left notes in my car. He texted back quickly. He asked about my day and appeared to be listening to the answer.
