when a whistle is all that’s left

“I’m on the corner of Fifth and Franklin and I need backup. I need help. They’ve already warned me to stop filming or they will arrest me.”

My phone dinged as the message came through my chat. I glanced at my watch and realized I could make it there in about 15 minutes. I had just finished putting groceries in my car, but luckily, with it being just under freezing, I knew things would keep cold. And I knew I would feel this pang of guilt if I didn’t go and try to help this woman. I was so close to her location. Traffic buzzed along; it was only mid-day, so the freeways were pretty quiet. That was good because if she was in some real trouble and I hit a slowdown, there was no chance I’d make it on time. I quickly took the exit off the freeway and turned down Fifth Street, starting to reduce my speed as I kept my focus out the window, trying to determine if I could see any ICE activity.

“Help!” The voice cut through the overcast gloom of the day like a lightning rod. The high-pitched squeal made my heart jump. I saw the masked men ahead. The woman was facing them, pleading. I glanced at the side of the residential street, looking frantically for a place to park. That’s odd—the street was full of parked cars. There were no immediate spots. I inched ahead, hoping I’d see a place to pull over. Another shriek from the woman pierced the air. It hung, stabilized in the ether, crystallizing as it jolted my body into action.

“Fuck it,” I mumbled aloud. I didn’t come all this way to help only to be deterred by parked cars. In a split second, I had my car in park in the middle of the street, engine still running, keys in the ignition, as I started to jog toward the woman, toward her screams.

The minute I approached the corner, which was about half a block back, the scene looked different. I saw the white-painted house with the green shutters—the one with the peeling paint the ICE agents had stood in front of. But the sidewalk was empty. No one was there. I glanced to the middle of the street where the woman had stood. Nothing. She was gone.

Something bright orange caught my eye on the pavement where the woman had been. I jogged to the spot and reached down to inspect the item. It was a whistle—a small one she must’ve used to alert people that ICE was in the area. But they weren’t there any longer. The street was silent, with only the faint echo of a dog barking from a block over.

I stomped my feet on the ground, frustrated. Why had I hesitated to park? Why hadn’t I just stopped my car and gotten out sooner?

I could hear the woman’s screams in my head. I could imagine her eyes—frightened, her body shaking. I shook my head in anger. How could this be happening? And all they get is a “warning”? And then they’re just gone? That doesn’t even make sense that they’d be warned at all. They were just standing in the middle of the street, like I was now.

I stuffed the whistle into my coat pocket, my fingers running over its hard plastic cold surface multiple times as my mind tried to comprehend the reality I was living in. Whistles, warnings, and the Whipple building were all caught in my head. That’s where I would go next. That’s where they were most likely taking her.

I jogged toward my car, my hand holding the whistle tightly in my pocket, not letting go.