PROLOGUE

            Georgia Adams finished off the rest of the coffee in her oversized “Some Bunny Loves You” mug, sat back in her chair at her desk and closed her eyes. At a quarter to five in the morning, even four cups of hot caffeine wasn’t keeping them open anymore, and she drifted into a crazy dream almost immediately—right there at her desk. She’d been on midnights for almost a week now, but her body clock still hadn’t adjusted to owl’s hours. Georgia hated working nights, but because of the baby she had no choice. Roofs didn’t get tarred at night, so Randy had to work days, they needed the money, and daycare wasn’t—and would never be—an option for her. No matter how much her over-achieving, workaholic mother-in-law insisted it should be.
            The beep sounded suddenly and loudly in Georgia’s ear, startling her awake with a familiar rush of adrenaline. She sat up in the chair and reached for the button to open the line.  “Police and fire,” she said in the programmed, calm monotone that the department had taught her as she rubbed the dream out of her eyes. “What’s your emergency?”
            The dead hum of silence buzzed the line.
             “This is the nine-one-one operator,” Georgia repeated. “Is there an emergency?”
            Silence again.
            “This is the nine-one-one operator. Do you have an emergency?” Georgia asked once more. She was a bit irritated. Maybe she shouldn’t have drifted off, but being woken up by either a drunk or a prankster was starting to tick her off.
             “Help us,” a small, far-off voice finally said.
            Georgia rolled her chair closer to the three-screen console in front of her. “Okay, I can help you,” she replied calmly. Her fingers hovered over the CAD keyboard, the Computer Assisted Dispatch system. When she typed in a particular signal number, the computer would automatically dispatch the right response, either fire rescue or police. She didn’t know what she had just yet, what button to push. “What’s your name, hon? Can you speak up?” she asked, adjusting the volume on her headset when there was no response. “’Cause I can barely hear you.” Unfamiliar, prickly goosebumps suddenly erupted across her body, raising the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. Georgia had been an emergency operator for a long time—too long, maybe—but the one thing she wasn’t usually was affected. She’d listened before while husbands beat their wives, road rage erupted into gunshots, and women had babies on their kitchen floors. But there was something in this voice. Something that was not right. Something that inexplicably affected her.
            “Help us…please.” 
            So small, so distant, so unsure. Like a child. 
            An address accompanied the telephone number that stared back at her from her Positron screen, the public safety phone system that automatically tracked incoming calls on the emergency line. On the PowerMap monitor, a small, one-dimensional computer-generated house appeared on a map on a block lined with other computer-generated houses. She could see that the call was coming from a residence.
            “I’m going to help you, honey,” Georgia replied calmly. “I need you to stay on the line and tell me exactly what’s happened.”
            “I think he’s coming back,” said the whisper in between short, labored pants.
            “Who’s coming? Are you hurt? What’s your name?” Identify with them, Georgia. Keep them on the line, whatever you do, girl. Get details, if possible.
            “I think he’s coming back,” the voice repeated, breaking as it started to cry now.
            “Who’s that? Has someone been hurt? Do you need an ambulance?” It was getting harder to maintain the monotone. Georgia looked at the computer-house, flashing helplessly at her on the screen. What the hell was happening in there?
            And then, abruptly, the tears stopped with a sucked-in sniffle. “Uh-oh. No, no, no. Sshh, sshh, shhh…” Silence filled the line once again.
            Maybe this is just a prank, Georgia told herself. Maybe it’s just a kid messing around with her. She’d fielded dozens and dozens of pranks in her career—most of them being made at sleepovers with giggly adolescents whose parents never taught them that dialing 911 wasn’t some kind of a joke.
            A soft thud sounded in the background. Georgia hesitated for just a moment and then started again. “Hello? Hello? Are you still there?” She stood up in her seat to signal her supervisor so he could pick up the line and listen, but he was away from his cubicle, which was clear across the room. In fact, dozens of cubicles were empty on the floor. Oddly enough, the hours between 3:00 PM and midnight were the busiest for emergency dispatchers—rush-hour accidents, people getting home from work all stressed and taking it out on their family and friends. The graveyard shift was supposed to be the quiet one. “Hello? Is there someone on the line?” Georgia demanded. “Is there anyone there? This is the emergency operator.”
            “No, no,” said the broken whisper, starting to cry once more. “Oh, no, no, no please…”
            Then the line went dead.
            Georgia stared at the screen in front of her, her heart beating fast. The house continued to flash at her, glowing ghostly white in the dark seclusion of her cubby.
             She never worked midnights again.