It was the voice that left no room.
When I was fifteen, I hated that voice. Sitting in that Buick on County Road 6, I finally understood that it had never been built for me at all. It was built for people on the worst night of their lives. I had only ever gotten what was left over when she came home in the morning.
The dispatcher broke first.
“Shirley?”
It came out of the little speaker cracked right down the middle. No call number. No procedure. Just a name, like somebody calling across a yard.
“Shirley, it’s Kim. Are you all right? Is that you? Are you the stop?”
The deputy still had his thumb on the button. I think he forgot it was there.
“I’m just fine, Kim,” my mother said to his shoulder. “A little warm. You sound good today. I had my scanner on this morning, and you sound real good.”
