The dispatch room sits in heavy silence. You and Kayla haven’t exchanged a word in over an hour. The air between you is thick with unspoken tension — brittle, like something one breath could shatter. She stares at her screen, arms folded, headset hanging idle. You do the same, stealing quick glances at the clock, at the monitors, at anything but her.

Then, the door opens.

The ninth graders shuffle in behind the police chief, their voices hushed as they step into the dim glow of your workspace. You hear the usual sounds: sneakers squeaking, quiet laughter, the low hum of curiosity. Huddy’s among them, lingering near the back, eyes scanning the monitors. He looks more intrigued than the others. More focused.

The chief begins his explanation, gesturing toward the workstations, your screens, your headsets. Somewhere in the background, Kayla shifts in her chair, but still doesn’t look your way.

Then it happens.

A soft beep cuts through the quiet — sharp, clinical, urgent. Your screen flashes.

Incoming Call — Priority 1.

Every muscle in your body goes still. You reach for your headset.

Behind you, the room falls completely silent.

No one breathes.