Page 4 of The Good Luck Cafe
“Yes, hi. There’s been an accident on Hannigan Street. It’s three cars,” the caller said breathlessly. “There’s a child in the middle car, and I can hear him crying loudly. Oh, poor thing. I hope he’s okay.”
Moira typed the details as fast as she could while simultaneously alerting the local sheriff’s department and paramedics. “Crying is good. That means he’s breathing easily. Have the other drivers or passengers gotten out of their vehicles yet?” Moira asked, typing quickly into the system.
“Just me,” the caller said. “I’m in the third car. I’m fine. I’m just…” The person hesitated.
“Ma’am? Are you still there?” Moira asked.
“Yes. Yes, I am. I can hear sirens now. That was so fast.”
The sheriff’s department was right down from Hannigan Street. “Ma’am, are you hurt?”
“Well, um, my forehead seems to be bleeding. I just feel a little woozy, that’s all. The child inside the other car is still upset. Should I go get them?”
“No, stay where you are, ma’am. You need to sit down. Do you see an ambulance yet?”
“Not yet,” the woman said. “I don’t know how it’ll get through to us though. This road is so narrow, and there are cars parked all along the sides.”
Lunchtime on Hannigan Street was like that, mostly because of Sweetie’s and Choco-Lovers, which served up everything chocolate. Folks wanted to eat, and there was nowhere to park. “Are any of the vehicles smoking?” Moira asked, worried that one might catch fire. That had happened a few years back, and the driver had barely escaped.
“No, I don’t think so.” The caller’s words slurred as they stopped and started. Moira thought maybe the woman had hit her head harder than she’d realized. “Oh, there’s an ambulance. And a fire truck too. I see their lights down the street,” she said.
“Good. Stay on the line with me until someone attends to you.”
“Okay.”
Moira waited with the caller for what seemed like forever. She was sure the other dispatcher on shift right now was probably talking to another of the accident victims or a nearby onlooker. Finally, one of the paramedics on the scene stepped over to check on Moira’s caller.
When Moira finally disconnected, she felt jittery. She always ended her calls before she knew that everyone would be okay. She had no idea what had happened to the child or the caller or anyone else involved in the pileup. Sometimes Moira got the rest of the story through word of mouth or via Reva’s town blog, but at other times, she was left to wonder if the person on the other line was okay.
Getting up, Moira stretched and went to pour herself a glass of water. She drank it while standing over the sink. Then she turned as the alarm on her dispatch went off a second time.Again?For a dead day, two back-to-back calls was unusual. Perhaps someone else was calling about the same accident.
Moira tapped a button on her wireless headset, connecting the call. “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“Hello? Are you there?” a man’s voice asked.
“I’m here. Do you have an emergency, sir?” Moira asked.
“Yes. I…” He groaned painfully into the phone’s receiver.
Moira waited, worry growing. “Sir, are you there?” she asked after a few seconds went by. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, my name is Doug Ryan. I live at 213 Lakeside Drive, but I’m at my brother’s house right now.”
Moira knew this caller, which wasn’t so unusual. She knew most of the callers who dialed in. She usually tried not to let callers know she knew them though, in case it made them self-conscious or worried about privacy. In this case, she thought letting Doug know who she was would help establish trust. “Doug, this is Moira Green. What’s going on? Are you all right?”
“Moira? Gil’s friend?” Doug asked, sounding confused.
“I’m a dispatcher. Do you need me to send help?” she asked. Doug had Down syndrome. He had graduated from high school a couple of years ago and lived with his parents on the lake.
“Yes. My parents are running errands. And Gil’s at a meeting. I’m at his house.”
Moira knew Gil lived on the lake right next door to his parents. The house had belonged to Gil’s grandmother when she was alive. It was about a five-minute drive from Moira’s neighborhood.
“And what’s going on with you?” she asked. So far, Doug was talking just fine, which meant he was breathing normally. She didn’t know if he was badly injured though.
“I was feeling dizzy, and Goldie knocked me down.”
Goldie was Gil’s golden retriever. He’d had the dog for years, and she’d seen him walking it in a nearby park on several occasions. “Can you get up?” she asked.
