What the Operator Knew at 3 AM

Maya's headset cable coiled around her neck like a snake she'd forgotten she was letting live there. Three hours until shift end. Her personal iphone sat face-down on the desk, screen lighting up every twelve minutes—him, again, calling, leaving voicemails she'd promised herself she'd delete but never could.

Then: Line 4. Mrs. Elena Rosetti, 82, calling for the fourth time this week about the same issue.

"I can't make the faces appear on the little screen," Mrs. Rosetti said. "The grandchildren. They're supposed to be there."

Maya should have transferred her to Tier 2. Should have followed protocol. Instead she found herself saying, "Have you tried the green button again?"

While Mrs. Rosetti fumbled, Maya peeled the orange she'd brought from home—bisecting the skin, the spray of citrus hitting the recycled air of the call center. Something real in this room of blue light and automated scripts.

"There they are!" Mrs. Rosetti cried. "Oh, they're so big. Look at Michael, he's got his father's nose."

Maya's throat tightened. She swallowed a vitamin from the bottle her mother kept sending—gummy ones shaped like bears, a joke between them now, Maya supposed to be trying, her mother worried she was lonely.

"They're in Chicago," Mrs. Rosetti continued. "I haven't seen them in two years. Since Frank's funeral."

"I'm sorry," Maya said.

"We kept saying next Thanksgiving. Always next. He had a stroke in the kitchen while I was at choir practice. No goodbye. Just—gone."

Maya looked at her iphone. The last call from David had been Tuesday: I don't want to lose you. Please. Five calls today alone.

"You know," Mrs. Rosetti said softly, "Frank used to peel oranges for me. Every Sunday breakfast. He'd do that thing—where he gets all the white part off, perfectly. He never had patience for anything else, but for me, he'd take the time."

Maya's fingers were sticky with juice. Something cracked open in her chest.

"Mrs. Rosetti," she said, "do you have a pen?"

She gave the woman her personal number. Protocol violation. Fireable offense.

"Call me," Maya said. "Not for the iphone. Just. If you need someone to talk to."

"You're a good girl," Mrs. Rosetti said. "Don't let your Frank get away."

After the call ended, Maya picked up her iphone. Three missed calls from David. She typed: I'm scared but I'm more scared of never knowing what we could be. Send.

Two rings later. "Maya?"

"I'm here," she said, peeling another segment of orange, letting herself taste it.