The Earthquake

Today marks the third anniversary of my marriage to Jim Luke. Last week, when he left for the neighboring city to discuss a project, he gently touched my hair and promised to bring me back a limited-edition pearl brooch. I'm a civil affairs reporter at the city television station. The news from the earthquake area just flashed on the news app, and clutching my press badge, I rushed straight to the editor-in-chief's office. "I'm applying to go to the frontline. I have experience, and I... I want to look for my husband." I whispered that last part. The editor hesitated for a moment, glanced at my reddened eyes, and finally nodded. He sent Peter to go with me and even handed me a rescue suit: "Stay safe, and call me anytime if you need anything." As the car headed toward the earthquake area, the radio kept broadcasting the latest casualty figures. My hands gripping the phone were drenched in sweat; I dialed Jim Luke's number over and over, but all I got was a busy signal. The highway was jammed with rescue trucks and ambulances, red police lights flashing in the rain, stabbing into my eyes. Peter comforted me beside me: "Ella, Jim's a lucky man; he'll definitely be okay." I said nothing, just stared at the ruins rushing by, my heart clenched tight, struggling to breathe. At the edge of the earthquake area, we showed our press passes before they allowed us in. Collapsed buildings were everywhere, the air thick with dust and the sharp scent of disinfectant, and people called out their loved ones' names, crying in the ruins. I split from Peter; he went to film the rescue efforts while I held Jim Luke's photo, questioning the rescue workers one by one. "Have you seen this man? Around 1.85 meters tall, wearing a gray suit and carrying a silver-gray pen." After nearly two hours of asking, no one had seen him. I approached a section of ruins that had just been half cleared when suddenly, among twisted steel bars, a flash of silver caught my eye. I ran over, crouched down, and started clearing away the rubble; my fingers were cut by sharp stones, and blood immediately began to seep out. It was that pen—the limited edition I hunted through three stores to buy for his birthday last year. He said he wanted to carry it to every meeting from now on. "Here! Maybe here!" I shouted toward the rescue team not far away, my voice trembling. The rescuers ran over, wanting to help with tools, but I was already digging with my hands like a madwoman.