The Dispatch Desk – Part 1: Headset

"Nine-one-one, what's the address of your emergency?"

Elena's voice shook slightly. She was thirty-two, a new dispatcher, in a neat navy sweater, with her hair pulled back and a headset clamped over one ear. It was 2 a.m. in a huge, dim, humming dispatch centre in Seattle, a room of glowing screens and low voices, rows of people murmuring into microphones. On her screen, a call was ringing.

"He's not breathing," said a woman's voice, high with terror.

"I'm going to help you. Stay on the line. What's your address?"

Beside her, in the next chair, sat Ravi. He was thirty-six, the shift supervisor, calm and lean, with warm brown eyes, a quiet beard and a mug of tea. He did not touch her console. He simply watched, and nodded once, encouragingly.

She got the address. She sent the unit. She talked the woman through chest compressions, counting aloud, voice steady now, a clear, quiet rope of calm. Four minutes later, the paramedics arrived. The man was breathing.

Elena let out a long, shaky breath. Ravi pushed the tea across the desk.

"Good," he said, softly.

"I almost froze."

"You didn't."

"My hands were shaking."

"Your voice wasn't."

"Is it always like this?"

"No," said Ravi. "Some nights it's a lost cat. But the voice always has to stay the same. It's the only thing they can hold on to."

She drank the tea. It was strong, hot and sweet. Her shoulders loosened. Around her the night hummed on: a car crash, a fire, a lost child, a man locked out of his flat. Ravi talked her through the long hours with a dry, gentle humour. At five, the sky outside the high windows began to pale.

"Can I ask you something?" said Elena.

"Yes."

"How long did it take you to stop being afraid?"

"I didn't," said Ravi. "I just learned to be afraid and steady."

"Green?" she said, a screen light.

"Green," said Ravi, with a warm smile. "Very green. Take your break."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Quiet Hours.