At nine oh six, the indicator for line 18 turns from green to red while Jonas Holm is still trying to peel a mandarin sticker off the edge of his screen.
He puts his headset back on before the second ring.
“112. What’s your emergency?”
At first there is nothing on the other end but uneven breathing and the sound of dishes. Jonas watches a blank incident form open on his screen. Mobile number. Locating caller. Thirty conversations weave through the room without ever becoming noise to anyone who has worked there long enough. A street name surfaces to his left, an ambulance is requested two rows away, someone laughs too loudly by the coffee machine and immediately catches themselves.
“Sir? Can you hear me?”
“I’ve… I think I’ve cut myself.”
The voice is elderly. Danish. No pronounced shortness of breath. Jonas lowers his eyes to the line blinking with the connection.
“Where are you?”
“In my kitchen.”
“Give me the address.”
The man gives it, then adds that he does not want to bother the neighbors. Jonas records the street, the floor, the lack of an elevator, the door code the man first refuses to give and then supplies when Jonas asks who will let the paramedics in if he loses consciousness. The cut, he learns, came from a broken glass. Blood is soaking through a dish towel. The man takes an anticoagulant whose name he cannot remember.
Jonas gets the name on the box, the color of the pills, the time of the last dose. These are small holds on reality, places to put a hand. Once the paramedics have the door, the medication, the probable depth of the wound, and the fact that the cat is hiding under the table, they will not have to waste time.
“They’ll be there in a few minutes. Stay seated. Don’t lift the towel to check. Keep pressing down on it.”
“Is all of that really necessary?”
“The cat, no. The rest, yes.”
End of excerpt. Discover the other stories in this universe.