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 line 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 harmed—she was having a severe allergic reaction to fire ant bites. I kept her calm and talking while officers rushed to her neglected home.
When they forced entry, they found Mia immobilized by swelling, covered in ants, and slipping into anaphylactic shock. She survived—just minutes from death—after emergency treatment and an Epi shot.
Weeks later, I received a crayon drawing from Mia. Her legs were better, her family had moved, and there were no ants anymore.
That’s why I sit in a windowless room every day—because sometimes hope begins with a frightened whisper, as long as someone is there to answer.
