The call comes in at 2:17 a.m., right when the fluorescent lights hum loud enough to crawl under my skin and the coffee in my paper cup has gone lukewarm and bitter.
"Ninth Precinct Emergency Communications, this is Mae. What's your emergency?" My voice does what it's trained to do—calm, neutral, small enough not to upset anyone.
For a heartbeat, I get nothing but static and breathing. Not the slow, annoyed kind I hear when someone wants to complain about fireworks or noise. This is sharp, ragged, like it hurts to inhale.
"H-hello?" I prompt, eyes flicking to the digital timer counting up. Three seconds. Four.
A male voice explodes in my ear. "He’s not waking up. I need—shit, I need an ambulance, now. He’s—" The voice cracks, swallowed by a muffled curse and the scrape of something heavy against a hard surface.
Every muscle in my body snaps to attention.
"Sir, I need you to slow down and tell me what happened," I say, pen already in hand, even though everything is logged on the screen. I like the weight of the pen, the scratch of ink on paper. It’s proof that someone needed help, that I was there.
"He just—collapsed. We were going over tomorrow's event schedule and he grabbed his chest and—Jesus, Oliver, come on, man—" The phone muffles like he's turned away. When he comes back, his voice is wet with panic. "He’s not breathing right. He's just—just get someone here. Please."
Oliver.
It’s a common enough name, but the way he says it is different, loaded. And the background noise—clinking glass, distant music, the low hum of what sounds like a generator—doesn't match the usual cramped apartment soundscape.
On the big monitor, a red notification flashes: LINE TAGGED: BLOCKED / ANONYMOUS.
"Caller, I need an address," I say, fingers hovering above my keyboard. "We can't send anyone without a location."
"I can't give you that," he shoots back, so fast and sharp my shoulders flinch. "Just—ping the phone, whatever you people do. He said no cops, no calls, but I—" A harsh exhale. I imagine him running a hand over his face, sweat slick and shaking. "He’s dying."
The script says I am supposed to disconnect if the caller refuses to provide an address after reasonable attempts. We're not authorized to trace anonymous calls on a whim.
But there's a sound then, cutting through everything else: someone choking. Or trying to. A wet, ugly gasp that drags gears through my chest.
I freeze.
The last time I heard breathing like that, it was my father on the kitchen floor. By the time I called, he was already gone. Mom's voice in my ear, accusing without words, has never really left.
"Okay," I say, before I can stop myself. "Stay on the line. I'm going to see what I can do. Can you move him onto his back if he isn't already? Tilt his head back gently." My supervisor would call this "overstepping." I call it not being sixteen and useless again.
"He's on his back. There's foam—fuck, there's foam at his mouth—"
I mute my headset and half-stand, waving at Darren in Dispatch, two rows over. He looks up, eyebrows already annoyed.
"What?" he mouths.
I point to my screen, then to his. "Anonymous. Cardiac. Sounds bad," I whisper, pulling my mic away.
