The Cost of Silence

The ringing phone dragged me out of a dream. I rolled toward the noise and groped for the phone.

Sleet pecked at the windowpanes like fingernails.

A distorted voice slid into my ear. Walk away from the case. Accidents happen.

I jolted upright. A sudden weight landed on the bed. My collie Zeke, warm breath stirring my chin. His dark eyes met mine, they way they did when danger edged close.

I pushed up and scanned the yard. No stars. Just low, thick storm clouds squatting over the mountains, swallowing the moon in icy mist. Wind sucked warm air out through the doorframe cracks and shoved colder air back inside.

I’d said “yes,” this morning when the attorney called. He outlined the case. My jaw locked halfway through. I agreed to testify for the plaintiff. Workplace bullying. A world I testified in more often than I wanted.

Just before five, the defense attorney called. Offered five times my normal rate if I’d work for them. “They’d been unfairly accused by a chronic underperformer who saw shadows where none existed.”

I declined. He offered the same amount to simply withdraw. I declined again and took the file home and worked through it until late. Each page stole another inch of air.

The second call landed hours later. I jolted upright before my brain connected. Zeke lifted his head from the foot of the bed and growled low.

Tree branches bent under the wind’s force.

You think you understand bullying?

You don’t understand danger.

The call ended with a click.

The next morning, I phoned the attorney who’d hired me. He confirmed he’d been getting the same calls.

That night I fell into a thin, broken sleep. The phone yanked me out just after one. I debated answering, but Zeke nudged my shoulder with his nose.

Walk away. While you can.

Thirty minutes later, the fourth call rattled through the dark. I hadn’t slept. I snatched it.

No voice this time.

Just breathing.

I stood and crossed to the window. Zeke pressed against my leg, his body rigid, a low rumble building in his chest.

The fifth call vibrated on the nightstand just before dawn. Hoarfrost clung to the front fence in feathered sheets. Zeke sat upright beside me, ears pinned forward.

I lifted the phone.

Final chance. Walk away.

I let my palm settle on Zeke’s neck, his warmth grounding me.

“No.”

A short crackle.

Then silence.

That night, the clock stumbled toward midnight. The phone rang again. I answered before the first pulse faded.

Nice dog.

My body went still. Zeke froze mid-step, ears pivoting toward the front of the house.

Shame if he ran off one night.

The voice cut out. Zeke pressed his full weight into my leg. I sank my hand into his fur. Zeke didn’t relax. Neither did I.

Zeke paced, nails clicking, then halted in front of the window. A low rumble rolled from his chest.

I stepped beside him and lifted the curtain two inches.

The sky stretched low and dense, a slate lid pressed over the mountains.

Nothing…at first, then Zeke stiffened.

At the edge of the yard, where snow met the dark mouth of the spruce line, something moved. A patch of darkness where moonlight should have reflected.

I held my breath.

The stillness pressed in.

A faint crunch broke the quiet. A boot driving into crusted powder. Zeke surged forward, claws scraping the window frame, spine arched, throat vibrating with a warning growl.

Headlights flickered through the trees, off then on again, a vehicle reversing slowly behind the shadows. The beam glinted off hoarfrost, then slid away.

Close enough for my dog to catch their scent.

Close enough to study the house.

I lowered the curtain. Zeke stayed planted, chest heaving, gaze trained on the spot where the shadows swallowed the yard.

I pressed a hand to his neck, fingers buried in his fur, grounding myself in his heat.

Silence had a cost I wouldn’t pay. A young man sat across from me in a conference room a year earlier, eyes fixed on the table, shoulders rounded like he’d folded himself inward. His fingers picked at the rim of a paper cup until it shredded.

He explained the bullying in fragments. Supervisors mocking him in front of crews. A foreman dragging him outside and slamming him into a wall hard enough to stun him. A threat muttered against his ear: keep your mouth shut if you want to keep working.

He shook while I took notes. Only twenty and trying to hold down a job. Trying to survive. He flinched when a delivery cart rattled past the door.

Someone needed to stand with him in the room where truth mattered. Someone with credentials. Someone who couldn’t be leaned on or bought out.

I agreed to testify.

Not because it paid well.

Because he needed a voice that couldn’t be silenced.

The case never saw daylight.

He killed himself three days later.

I stared at the curtained window. Zeke nudged my leg, gaze fixed on the bedroom door.

The young man’s face burned through my memory.

I wouldn’t fold. Not for shadows shifting through the tree line or headlights ghosting the spruce.

Someone out there wanted me to walk away.

I didn’t.

BIO: Alaska/Washington author Lynne Curry—nominated for the 2025 Best of the Net Anthology, the 2024 Pushcart Prize and Best Microfiction—founded “Real-life Writing,” https://bit.ly/45lNbVo and publishes a monthly “Writing from the Cabin” blog, https://bit.ly/3tazJpW and a weekly “dear Abby of the workplace” newspaper column. Curry has published twenty-three short stories; seven poems; two articles on writing craft, and six books.