Peter’s chest was heaving as he burst through the front door of his home. He tried shouting for Amy. Except he had run so hard that his very short breaths were making it extremely difficult to speak, let alone shout. He settled for slamming the front door behind him, nearly doubling over as he gasped for air. For a few moments, he stared down at the tile floor of their entry, waiting for his breathing to slow enough to attempt speaking.
Glancing up, finally, into the front room of their home, Peter was puzzled to see Amy sitting on the couch. She faced the stone fireplace, so her head was turned away from him.
“Honey! We’ve got to call the police!” he squawked, not sure if his words were yet understandable. He still had a terrible stitch in his side from running so hard.
Amy sat, unmoved. She didn’t even look his way.
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