The call from Maplewood Drive popped up on console four with a little yellow tag that said unassigned emergency.

In ten years on the night board, Claire Johnson had never once seen that tag on her own screen.

She laid her yellow ballpoint down next to her brass desk clock and leaned in toward the monitor.

The clock read 9:14.

Forty screens glowed blue in the dark room, and the whole floor hummed the way it did every night.

The call before it had been a man out on County Line Road with a fence post down.

She typed up the referral, closed it, and had forgotten him before the screen even cleared. Wayne Owens set a paper cup on her blotter as he went by.

“The pot’s fresh. More or less.”
“More or less happens to be my favorite kind.”

He laughed and kept going, then stopped and came back, because she’d gone quiet.

“What’ve you got?”

“Maplewood. It isn’t coming through the usual trunk.” She clicked the tag and the address filled itself in. 1427 Maplewood Drive.

“Take it. I’ll keep an eye on the board.” He pushed his reading glasses up his nose and headed off toward the far consoles.