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Tasha sent me every single one. Then she sent me the comments.

that’s not a kidnapping that’s a rescue

sir are you single

the way he didn’t even run. he WALKED

she screaming but she not fighting that hard 👀

if he did this to me i’d move to russia

My mama doesn’t comment. My mama calls.

It’s Monday morning. I’m sitting at the end of that big kitchen island in Bel Air in my gray UCLA hoodie, eating the chef’s French toast, when my phone lights up. Mama 🙏🏾. I look at it for three rings like it’s a snake.

Then I answer it, ‘cause I want to live.

“Hey, Mama.”

“Dylan Renee Jackson.”

All three names. I put my fork down.

“Mama, I can explain…”

“Mm-hm. Sister Patrice’s grandbaby showed her. Then Sister Patrice showed it to me. At church, Dylan. During the announcements.”

“Oh my God.”

“Don’t you take the Lord’s name in vain at me while I’m on the phone. I’m already upset.” I hear her breathe in through her nose. “Is that you?”

“…Yes, ma’am.”

“In that little red dress.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Over that big white man’s shoulder.”

“He’s… Yes, ma’am.”

Silence. A long one. The kind of silence that used to make me confess to stuff I didn’t even do.

“Are you safe?” she says. Quiet.

I look around that kitchen. The chef at the stove with his back to me. The gate way down the hill. The two new guards in the booth, ‘cause the old ones are gone and nobody will tell me where.

My throat closes up.

“I’m okay, Mama.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“I… I’m not hurt.”

“Dylan.”

“Mama, I’m okay.”