Night Shift

Content Warning: Domestic violence; child endangerment; threats of self-harm; mental health crises; emotional trauma and burnout; implied violence.

"911, what is the location of your emergency?"

Steven's fingers rested on the keyboard, ready to search for addresses and cross streets. The overhead lights were far too bright and gave everything a sick washed-out feel. There was no feeling of time cycle as the brick building hid any hint of the outside. Not that it would matter.

Midnight looked much the same as five AM.

Steven pulled the earpiece away from his head, then back again, searching for a position that didn't make his skull ache and ear hot. Five hours left in a twelve-hour shift.

Silence on the other side of the line.

"Hello, this is 911, I need the location of the emergency."

He'd rehearsed tonight's exit seventeen times. Walk to Dan's office. Hand over the letter. Don't explain. Just leave.

"Hello? Is someone there?" The voice in his ear was thin, scared.

"Yes, what is the location of your emergency?"

"I... I don't know if it's an emergency. My husband, he's—"

"What's the address, ma'am?"

She gave it. He typed. The CAD system populated her history: three previous calls this year. Two resulted in no charges pressed. One arrest. Husband back home in six weeks.

"Is he there now?"

"He's asleep. But earlier he... I think my wrist is broken."

Steven's fingers moved across the keyboard, automatic. "Are you in immediate danger right now, ma'am?"

"No. He's sleeping. I shouldn't have called."

"We're sending someone to check on you."

"No, please don't—"

"They're already dispatched, ma'am. I need to get his descrip—"

The click and two beeps signaled the line had disconnected. They always hung up when they heard the finality in that word: dispatched. Hiding from themselves or from the suspect, as if the husband wouldn't know after police arrived.

The energy drink on his desk had gone flat hours ago, but he took another sip anyway. Metallic-sweet, coating his teeth with that fuzzy feeling. On the wall, a laminated sign reminded him: "A Clean Workspace Promotes A Positive Atmosphere!" His console was immaculate. Three monitors perfectly aligned. No personal items around.

He could be gone tonight and it would be like he was never there.

Two more calls in quick succession. A fender-bender where both drivers insisted the other was drunk. A woman who'd found her teenage son's stash and didn't know if she should call 911 or the nonemergency number. Steven said he could process the call. The woman panicked, said never mind, and hung up.

"911, what is the location of your emergency?"

"It's me again."

Dennis. Thursday night regular. Steven typed the address from memory while Dennis slurred through his usual threats. The monologue was as familiar as a family greeting: life wasn't worth living, everyone would be better off, he had pills this time, no wait, a knife, no actually—

"Are you in immediate danger, Dennis?"

"I got a rope."

Same as last week. Steven dispatched units, knowing Dennis would refuse transport. Knowing he'd call again Saturday. The mouthpiece brushed against his lips. He adjusted it again.

Between calls, the center felt like being underwater. Other operators visible but unreachable in their bubbles of crisis. Tanya two desks over laughed at something on her phone while someone was dying in Kim's ear. The contrast didn't bother him anymore. That probably should have bothered him.

Another call. Wife had taken the family car. Husband wanted her arrested for theft to "teach her a lesson." Steven explained it wasn't theft if she was on the title. The husband hung up, promised to call back, speak to Steven's supervisor.

"911, what is the location of your emergency?"

"WHERE ARE THEY?" The woman's voice exploded through the headset. "I called FIVE MINUTES AGO."

"Ma'am, I need you to—"

"My mother is having a HEART ATTACK and you people—"

"The ambulance is en route, ma'am."

"You said that BEFORE. She's DYING. If she dies it's YOUR FAULT. YOUR FUCKING FAULT."

"Ma'am, has anything changed since you last called?"

"What's changed is I'm gonna sue you and sue 911!"

Steven minimized the CAD screen. Opened his personal email. The resignation draft appeared, cursor blinking. While she screamed about his incompetence, about the system's failures, about her mother's gray face, he worked on a sentence:

The emotional toll of—

Delete.

The cumulative psychological impact—

Her venom poured through the headset. He pulled the earpiece away, adjusted it back. Typed:

The weight of constant exposure to—

"ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING?"

"Yes ma'am. They're—"

"She's not breathing right. Oh god, she's not—"

"Is she conscious?"

"YES. No. I don't know. Her eyes are open but—"

The sirens reached her phone. The woman's sobs changed pitch. Relief now instead of rage. She hung up without a word.

Before he could mentally reset, another call beeped in. "911, what is the location of your emergency?"

Static. Breathing. Young.

"Hello, 911, what is the location of your emergency?"

"It's me." A whisper. "Jenna. From Maple Street."

Steven's hands stopped. Twelve years old. Already called twice this year. He knew her address, her father's name, her mother's explanations of bruises that were accidents.

"Hey Jenna. Tell me exactly what happened."

"Oh, it's you. I'm in the laundry room like you told me last time." Her voice was so small. "He's yelling again."

In the background: Muffled yells from a deep voice. Glass breaking. A baby crying from upstairs.

"Is he hurting your mom, Jenna?"

It wasn't the standard questions. QA would give him a verbal warning. But he couldn't face the cold standard lines.

"Not yet. But he's... he's got that look. You know?"

Steven typed the codes. Domestic violence. Children on scene. He put in the suspect's description from memory. Notified medical services as well.

It would come to that before police arrived.

"Jenna, officers are coming, okay? Stay where you are."

"Please don't take him away again."

His fingers paused over the keyboard.

"Mom cries for weeks when he's gone. And then he comes back anyway and it's worse for a while and then it's better and then it's like this again and—" She was crying now, trying to be quiet. "I don't want them to take him."

"Jenna—"

"WHY IS THIS DOOR LOCKED?" Her father's voice, closer now. "JENNA? YOU IN THERE?"

"I have to go."

"Jenna, just put the phone down and don't hang up."

"I can't. He'll be madder if he knows I called."

Steven heard sirens through her phone. Getting closer.

"JENNA, OPEN THIS DOOR."

Footsteps. Muffled noises of banging on the front door. More footsteps.

Steven couldn't tell whose.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she whispered.

The line went dead.

Steven sat in the bright washed silence. The headset weighed a thousand pounds. He pulled it off, set it on the immaculate desk. He hit print and the printer whirled to life. The resignation letter popped out in seconds.

Several eyes glanced over, then back to their own lives.

He pulled the letter from the tray, read his carefully crafted words about professional boundaries and emotional sustainability. All the right corporate language to say: I can't do this anymore.

"I'm going on break."

The others barely registered.

Dan's office was twenty steps. Fifteen. Ten.

Hand on the door handle.

Inside, Dan on the phone, gesturing for Steven to wait or leave. Steven stood there, letter in hand, while Dan laughed at something, made small talk, dragged out the call. A calltaker laughed at someone's outrageous "This actually happened" story. Another calltaker's console beeped with an incoming call. Then another.

Dan finally hung up. "Yeah?"

Steven looked at the letter. At Dan's face. The same dark circles under his eyes. Heard another console beep.

"—units are dispatched. Stay inside and keep your doors locked."

Steven ended the call. A Friday night block party that had the entire neighborhood calling. Cars blocking driveways. A man streaking through backyards. The kind of call that would be funny if you weren't dead inside.

Two empty energy drink cans on his desk now. A slight brown stain where the second one had tipped before he caught it. The workspace still immaculate otherwise, the stain already wiped but leaving its ghost behind.

Three calls already tonight. A man who'd cut off his finger with a table saw, surprisingly calm. A child who'd called because Mommy wouldn't wake up from her nap. A pizza delivery driver robbed at gunpoint, voice shaking as he kept apologizing for bothering them.

He opened his email. Resignation_draft_v3 appeared. The cursor blinked after that same sentence: The weight of constant exposure to—

Delete.

After eight years with this department—

The energy drink tasted worse tonight. More metallic. Or maybe that was just his mouth. He stared at the screen, trying to find the right words. Just the right words and he could leave. The right combination to make it okay to abandon the Jennas and the Dennises. The right words to give him sanity.

I just can’t take this anymore—

Delete.

A new call came in. He saved the draft, closed the email. Maybe he would have time to work on it after lunch.

Steven pulled the earpiece away from his aching skull, pressed it back.

"911, what is the location of your emergency?"