The Whistleblower

Timmy fell into a well.

It wasn't a deep enough well that it hurt, and the water at the bottom absorbed most of the fall. Yet now Timmy floated up to his neck at the bottom of a long, narrow wall of solid rock.

Timmy had allergies, so there would be no Lassie coming to his rescue.

They weren't horrible allergies, to the point he hadn't bothered to bring his inhaler with him outside today. Mostly they were the annoying, nose-dripping kind that made mornings suck.

Timmy had no bucket.

He'd thought the well abandoned, at least that's what his grandfather had said when he gave him the landmarks around his property. Twenty acres of maple grove, and the modern irrigation system had surpassed this old hole in the ground.

Timmy had no rope.

Granted he'd packed a small knapsack with some afternoon snacks and other amenities, intending to hike about the property for a couple hours before heading home for dinner. He hadn't planned on doing any climbing, or tugging, or anything like that.

Timmy did have a whistle.

It was an odd little tin thing his father had given him ages ago on a birthday when he'd hit some magical marker of "manhood" and his father had felt he should have it. His father, a protective sort, had said that whistles served as signals for when one needed help and that nobody should ever feel they couldn't ask for help.

Timmy needed help.

Pulling the whistle out of his shirt, where it hung lovingly tied on an old leather string, he shook off the water droplets and held it to his lips. As he blew out through lips turning blue in the cold water below the autumn ceiling above, the whistle let out a shrill cry like a bird soaring across the sky.

Timmy blew and blew.

After awhile his lips started trembling around the metallic mouthpiece, his body shivering and making the sound waver. Yet not one shiver came from fear; he needed help, he just had to wait.

Timmy waited for awhile.

The sun had set lower in the sky, and he had slowed down on his whistles as he tried to keep his energy. He knew somebody would hear them eventually, he just had to keep up his spirits.

Timmy started to drift asleep.

The cold seeping into his limbs didn't help much, and blowing the whistle seemed harder and harder with each passing minute. The freezing water around him sloshed in a rhymic fashion, as if lulling him to rest in its clutches.

Timmy looked up and saw faces.

His grandfather started shouting down, a flashlight beaming straight into his face and Timmy smiled back. His father threw down a rope - the kind Timmy should remember to pack more often - and asked if he could climb or if he needed help.

Timmy grinned and said he needed help.

His father clambored down, clutching the rope and sliding down the rocky sides of the well until his boots hit bottom. Grabbing Timmy, who wrapped around him, he hefted him onto one hip and then began climbing back up towards the rim.

Timmy clutched his father and smiled.

He knew his family would find him. People who cared never let you down when it mattered, so long as you trusted in them - and made sure you kept a whistle, just in case they couldn't hear you.

-------

Timmy sat in his company car.

In his hands he held a cell phone, bright and shiny, a number on the screen frozen in time. He hadn't called it in over six months, always apologizing that he didn't have time or work had gotten busy.

Timmy's briefcase tipped over and out fell his whistle.

And he remembered what his father had always said - and he remembered that when he whistled he had come for him. So with a deep breath, Timmy picked up his phone and hit the number.

"Hello? Timmy?"

"Hey, Dad."

"What's wrong, son?"

"I...." Timmy's voice sounded broken, hoarse.

The voice on the other end paused. "That's alright, son. I'll be there. Where are you?"

And Timmy smiled, tearfully, and whistled for help.