system.
When we renovated Station Four, Ruth and I had insisted on retaining a separate distress beacon powered by an independent battery.
The beacon operated through a manual activation wheel mounted near the upper maintenance platform.
Dorian had argued against the expense.
I had insisted.
Now I could barely see the wheel in the dim light entering through the high windows.
I climbed the narrow steel steps, pressing my shoulder against the railing whenever the current struck.
The water was almost at my waist when I reached the platform.
I stretched toward the wheel.
My fingertips brushed its edge.
I couldn’t quite reach.
I stepped onto a low maintenance bracket, ignoring the pain pulling through my back.
This time I got both hands around the metal rim.
I turned it.
It resisted.
I shifted my weight and tried again.
For an instant, the wheel moved, then jammed.
A surge of water struck the bracket beneath my boots.
My foot slipped.
I caught the railing with one arm, pain shooting through my shoulder.
The water was climbing past my hips.
I had one more chance.
I braced myself, pulled against the wheel, and felt the mechanism release.
Somewhere outside, a warning bell sounded.
The independent red beacon began flashing across the seawall.
I almost laughed from relief.
But the water didn’t stop rising.
Activating a signal wasn’t the same as being rescued.
I clung to the railing, waiting for someone to notice.
***
At 9:23 p.m., Ruth Calder saw the emergency signal appear on the harbor monitoring system.
She had been looking for it.
My promised check-in hadn’t arrived, and my earlier message had made her uneasy.
She called the harbor operations desk and asked whether anyone had reported trouble at Station Four.
The dispatcher told her an emergency warning had activated.
Before Ruth could explain, a call came over the recorded harbor radio channel.
A woman identified herself as Miriam Wren.
“The alarm is a test,” Miriam said.
“No rescue crew is required.
Keep everyone at the docks until morning.”
Ruth didn’t believe her.
She knew we had no scheduled testing during storm conditions.
And she knew I was inside that station.
At 9:31, Ruth called the harbor patrol supervisor directly and reported a possible entrapment.
Ten minutes later, emergency responders forced open the upper maintenance access.
By then I was barely conscious.
I remember the beam of a flashlight cutting through the darkness.
I remember a rescuer calling my name.
And I remember trying to speak, but all I could manage was one word.
“Baby.”
The next clear memory I have is an ambulance ceiling above my face.
A paramedic was checking my pulse while another spoke to the hospital over the radio.
I kept asking whether my baby was alive.
Nobody would promise what they couldn’t yet know.
At the hospital, a doctor examined me and used an ultrasound to check my son’s condition.
Then I heard it.
His heartbeat.
Strong.
Steady.
Beautiful.
I began crying so hard that the nurse pulled a chair beside the bed and held my hand.
I had never heard a sound more precious.
***
Detective Asha Malik arrived the following morning.
She was a calm woman with observant eyes and a habit of allowing silence to do the work of interrogation.
She
