The Call a Child Should Never Have Made
The operator had been in that job so long that she thought she had heard every possible nuance of fear in a human voice, because there were nights when callers screamed, afternoons when they cursed, mornings when they spoke with such strange calm that it was clear their minds had retreated into a forced silence to avoid breaking down; and yet, on a cold October day, as the wind rattled a thin window somewhere on the other end of the line, a small voice came through that made her stop her fingers on the keyboard, as if the keys had turned to ice.
“My baby is fading,” the little girl whispered, and then the whisper broke into a sob she tried to stifle, as if she believed that even the sound of crying could consume precious time.
The operator softened her voice, as she always did when the caller was a child, because a soft voice sometimes gave people space to breathe, and sometimes breathing was enough to answer.
“Sweetheart, tell me your name.”
“Juniper,” the little girl said, her breath coming in short gasps as if she were running even though she was standing still. “But everyone calls me Juni.”
“Okay, Juni. How old are you?”
“Seven.”
There was a pause, and behind it came a faint, strained sound that could only be a baby crying, but it was so weak it seemed to pierce through fabric, distance, and weariness.
“Whose baby is it, sweetheart?” “Where is he?” the operator asked, her voice still gentle as her other hand reached for the send button.
Juni answered as if the truth were both obvious and burdensome.
“Mine,” she said, and then added, panicked by her own honesty, “I mean… he’s my brother, but I take care of him, and he’s getting lighter every day, and he won’t take anything, and I don’t know what else to do.”
