One evening, while an amber sunset filtered through the wide call-center windows, Ruth received a call that at first seemed like nothing more than another misguided dial.
“911, what’s your emergency?” she said smoothly.
A woman’s trembling whisper answered, “Hi… I—um… I’d like to order two pizzas. As soon as possible. Please.”
Ruth blinked. She had heard plenty of prank calls, people pretending to order food or testing the system. But something about the woman’s voice—the tightness, the shaky breath just after she spoke—felt wrong.
“Ma’am,” Ruth began, “I think you may have misdialed. This is emergency services.”
“Please don’t hang up,” the woman blurted, her whisper cracking on the last word. “Please.”
Ruth hesitated. Her fingers hovered above her keyboard. “Ma’am, if this is some kind of joke—”
“I swear it’s not,” the woman said. “This is… the pizzeria. I need two pizzas. I need them right away.”
That did it. That subtle emphasis, the forced wording—Ruth had heard it before, from callers who couldn’t speak openly.
“Alright,” Ruth said, lowering her voice as if speaking to someone across a delicate bridge. “I’m going to ask you yes-or-no questions. Answer only with yes or no. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Are you in danger?”
“Yes.”
“Is someone with you right now?”
“Yes. My daughter, too. We’re… very hungry.”
Ruth typed rapidly, initiating a location trace. “Is this a domestic situation?”
“…Yes.”
“So the person putting you in danger—is it a man?”
“Yes.”
A moment later, a deep voice thundered faintly through the phone: “Who are you talking to? Hang up.”
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