Chapter 9: Night Channel

Six weeks after my daughter was born, I put my headset back on.

The night dispatch room at the utility was the same as I'd left it.

Low ceiling, no windows, a wall of screens with the whole county's grid glowing on it in green and red.

Six desks.

Bad coffee.

My chair still had the dent from my back.

Somebody had taped a sign over my screen in marker.

WELCOME BACK FOUR. NO JOKES ON THE CHANNEL. (MORGAN THIS MEANS YOU.)

The dispatch manager came over with a bakery box.

"You sure about this? Nobody would blame you for taking the full twelve weeks."

"I'm sure."

I was.

The custody petition was with my lawyer.

My staples were out.

Ruthann had switched her shifts to days and moved half her wardrobe into my spare room.

"I sleep better on your couch than I ever did in my own place," she'd said. "Go. Work. I've got the girl."

And I needed something in my life to be exactly what it used to be.

At ten, I keyed the mic.

"All crews, all crews, this is channel four. Night dispatch is open. Check in by number."

There was a pause.

Then the channel blew up.

"Four's back!"

"Four! Six copies, welcome home!"

"Three copies. Thank God, the day guy can't pronounce Allegheny."

"Twelve copies, Four. My wife made you a lasagna. It's in the fridge in the break room. Don't let Nine eat it."

Then somebody leaned on a horn.

Then somebody else did.

Crew trucks all over the county, parked at substations and on dark roads, honking into their radios for me.

I had to mute it for a second.

I put my hand over my mouth.

The dispatch manager pretended to look at his screen.

When I keyed back in, my voice was mostly steady.

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