“Unit 4-Alpha, domestic disturbance at the trailer park on Route 61 is cleared,” the radio crackled.

Martha adjusted her headset, her fingers brushing the gray strands of hair that had escaped her bun. She took a sip of coffee. It was stone cold. She thought about pouring it out, but the break room felt like a mile away. She thought about her own daughter, somewhere in Ohio, who hadn’t called in two years. The silence in her own life was louder than the phones.

Then, line 3 blinked red.

It wasn’t a frantic strobe. Just a steady, rhythmic blink. Martha sighed, swallowed the cold coffee, and clicked the button.

“9-1-1, where is your emergency?” Her voice was automatic, a steel trap wrapped in velvet. It was the voice that had talked men off bridges and guided mothers through births in the backseats of sedans.

Silence.