The Dispatcher's Crime and My Vengeance
My son spiked a sudden high fever, scorching like a flame under my touch.
I frantically dialed 911 for help, but the dispatcher on the line kept repeating questions, dragging it out.
By the time the ambulance siren finally wailed in the distance, my son had already grown cold and still in my arms.
Less than a year later, my husband and I split up amid endless grief and finger-pointing. I dragged on like an empty shell until one day I got an e-invite to his wedding.
The moment I clicked the voice message, my blood ran cold. The bride's voice echoed exactly like that sluggish dispatcher from back then.
In a breakdown, I bolted out of the house and got caught in the path of a speeding subway train, plunging me into darkness.
When I opened my eyes again, my son's cries pierced the air from the next room, his forehead blazing hot against my palm.
My husband thrust the phone toward me. "Quick, call 911! I'll grab a cold compress."
My hands trembled as I dialed, and a chillingly familiar voice answered, "Hello, 911 emergency services."