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."

That familiar voice made my hair stand on end, as images from my past life crashed into my mind like a tidal wave.

I recalled every agonizing detail—my son's warmth fading inch by inch in my embrace, my husband bellowing in raw panic, and the bride's saccharine tone in that e-invite.

"We'd love for you to join us in celebrating our joy..."

It was her—Tessa Vickers from next door, the one who always "happened" to bump into Chris Brock and me in the elevator, gushing about how he embodied the perfect family man.

Her voice drifted through the line again, languid and calculated. "Hello? Can you hear me? Do you need an ambulance? Is it your kid? Running a fever?"

A frigid chill surged from my toes to the crown of my head. In this reborn life, I hadn't uttered a single word about the emergency yet, so how did she already know about my son's illness? Unless she had anticipated this call, lurking in wait.

I slammed the call shut, my wrist quaking violently.

Chris burst out of the bathroom with a damp washcloth, skidding to a halt at the sight of my dazed stance. "What happened? Did the call connect? You don't look so well."

I brushed past him, scooped up my son, and bolted for the door. Time was slipping away; I refused to entrust our fate to that poisonous viper.

"What are you doing?" Chris leaped forward, blocking the entryway with a stunned glare. "Did you summon the ambulance? Where are you rushing him off to?"

"Move aside!" I snarled through clenched teeth, my voice trembling with rage. "I'm driving him to the hospital myself!"

"Have you lost your senses?" he barked back. "His fever is raging. The ambulance will be faster. It's the safest option!"

He snatched the phone from the couch, redialed 911, and switched to speaker mode. That spine-tingling voice echoed once more. "Hello, 911 emergency services."

"Hey, my son is suddenly burning up," Chris said quickly, his panic raw and real. "Please send an ambulance right away!"

Tessa's response flowed smoothly. "Alright, sir, stay calm. We're dispatching the nearest unit to you immediately."

Her efficiency starkly contrasted the sluggish delay she had inflicted on me just moments ago.

He hung up with a heavy exhale, then pivoted toward me, his gaze laced with frustration and confusion. "See? Simple as that. Why are you spiraling like this?"