I work as a 911 dispatcher in Silverwood, Michigan. My job isn’t about talking—it’s about listening. One quiet autumn morning, a rare landline call came in. On the other end was Mia, a six-year-old home alone, whispering that ants were in her bed and she couldn’t close her legs.
As she described burning pain and swelling, I realized she wasn’t being hurt—she was having a severe allergic reaction from fire ant bites. I kept her talking while officers rushed to her crumbling house. When they broke in, they found Mia paralyzed by swelling, covered in hundreds of ants and slipping into anaphylactic shock.
She survived—minutes from death—thanks to quick response and an Epi shot. Weeks later, I received a crayon drawing from Mia saying her legs were better, her family had moved, and there were no ants anymore.
It’s why I sit in a windowless room every day: sometimes hope begins with a frightened whisper, as long as someone is there to answer.