“North Pole Emergency Hotline. This is Santa’s helper, Owen, speaking. Who am I talking to tonight?”
Silence. Not dead air—I could hear something on the other end. Breathing. Soft and quick, like a small animal hiding in tall grass. I waited, counting seconds. Five. Ten. Some children needed time to work up the courage.
“Hello,” I gentled my voice. “It’s okay. You can talk to me. Santa asked me to answer his special phone tonight because he’s very busy getting the sleigh ready.”
More breathing. Then, so quiet I had to press the headset harder against my ear, a voice emerged. Young. Very young. Female.
“Is this… is this really Santa’s helper?”
The girl’s words came out with a slight lisp, the sound soft and undefined. I felt something in my chest loosen slightly. A real call. A real child. Not a prank.
“It really is,” I said. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
Another pause. In the background, I heard something I couldn’t quite identify. A low, mechanical humming. A refrigerator, maybe? Or a heating unit running.
“Riley.”
“Riley. That’s a beautiful name. How old are you, Riley?”
“I’m four and three-quarters. That’s almost five.”
I smiled, this time without forcing it. “Four and three-quarters is very grown up. Are you calling to tell Santa what you want for Christmas?”
“No.” The word came fast, almost sharp.
My smile faded. I’d done enough of these calls to recognize the cadence of excitement, the rhythm of a child bursting to share their wish list. This wasn’t that. This was something else.
“No,” I kept my voice light, curious, not pressing. “What did you want to talk to Santa about?”
Then the breathing again. I heard something shift on the other end. Fabric rustling, maybe. The girl was moving. I pictured her sitting on the floor, phone clutched in small hands, looking at something.
“I don’t want toys,” Riley whispered.
The words hung in the space between us. I felt my training kick in—that old instinct that had made me good at my job before everything fell apart. Something was wrong. Not obviously, not yet, but wrong the way the air feels different before a storm.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “You don’t want toys. That’s all right. What do you want, Riley?”
Another pause, longer this time. I could hear the child’s breathing change, becoming irregular. Not quite crying, but close. When Riley spoke again, her voice was so small I had to strain to hear it over the hum of the heater.
“I want my daddy to wake up.”
My hand, which had been resting casually on the desk, curled into a fist. My mind split into two tracks: the one that kept talking, kept his voice calm and gentle, and the one that started running through scenarios, possibilities, red flags.
“Your daddy is sleeping?” I asked. “Is it past your bedtime, sweetheart?”
“No. I mean… yes, but… daddy’s not sleeping sleeping.” Riley’s voice wavered. “He’s… he’s on the floor in the bathroom. And he won’t wake up.”
Every nerve in my body fired at once. My training screamed at me: Medical emergency. Possible unconsciousness. Child alone with incapacitated adult.
But I couldn’t panic. Couldn’t let Riley hear anything in my voice except calm, steady reassurance.
“Okay, Riley,” I said, forcing my heart rate down. “You’re being very brave right now. Very, very brave.” My free hand moved to my keyboard, pulling up the call log screen, looking for any identifying information. The number showed as Restricted. Of course it did.
“Can you tell me… is your daddy breathing? Is his chest moving up and down?”
“Yeah… but it’s… funny breathing. Like…” Riley made a sound, a labored huffing that sent ice down my spine. “Like that. And he smells funny, too.”
“What kind of funny smell?”
“Like… like the sugar mommy puts in her coffee. Sweet. But bad sweet.”
Diabetic Ketoacidosis. The diagnosis hit me like a physical blow. I’d seen it dozens of times during my years on the ambulance. The fruity, acetone smell of a body in metabolic crisis, breaking down fat for energy when it couldn’t process glucose. If Riley’s father was unconscious and displaying labored breathing—Kussmaul respirations, my textbook mind supplied—he was in serious trouble.
“Riley, listen to me very carefully.” My voice remained steady even as my mind raced. “You’re doing everything right. I’m so proud of you for calling. Where is your mommy?”
“She’s at work. At the night hospital. She’s a nurse. She helps people who are sick.”
Of course. A nurse would work night shifts during the holidays. A nurse would also be married to someone with a chronic condition she couldn’t always monitor. I glanced at the clock. 11:47 P.M. I looked toward the back office where Martin, the night supervisor, was probably doing paperwork.
“And where are you right now, Riley? Are you at home?”
“Yeah. Daddy was supposed to pick me up from Grandma’s house, but he didn’t come. So Grandma brought me home and Daddy’s car was here, but he didn’t answer the door. Grandma has the extra key. She said Daddy was sleeping and she had to go because Grandpa needs his medicine at night. She said I should be a big girl and let Daddy sleep.”
My jaw tightened. An elderly woman, probably not understanding the severity, leaving a four-year-old with an unconscious diabetic. No malice, just ignorance. Just a series of small decisions that added up to a child alone in a house with a man who might be dying.
“You are a big girl, Riley. The biggest, bravest girl I’ve ever talked to.” I was already pulling my personal cell phone from my pocket with my free hand, texting Martin with urgent efficiency: EMERGENCY CALL. NEED YOU NOW.
“Can you tell me what you see when you look out your window? Are there any houses close to yours?”
“Um…” The phone rustled. I heard small footsteps, the creak of floorboards. “I see Mr. Thompson’s house. He has lots of lights. Red and green ones. They blink.”
“That’s perfect. That’s really helpful. Can you see anything else? Maybe a street sign or a number on your house?”
“There’s numbers by our door. Four… one… one.”
“411.” I typed it into my notes. Not enough. Burlington had dozens of streets, hundreds of houses. “You’re doing so good, Riley. So good. Can you tell me, does your house have any special decorations? Maybe something different from other houses?”
“We have the snowman that lights up. But the lights are broken now. Daddy said he was going to fix it, but then he…” Her voice cracked. “He didn’t feel good yesterday. He kept drinking water. Lots and lots of water. And he was in the bathroom a lot. And this morning he told me… if he ever acts really sleepy and won’t wake up, I should call for help.”
The father knew. He’d been symptomatic for at least twenty-four hours. Polyuria, polydipsia—classic DKA presentation. And he’d had the presence of mind to prepare his daughter. To give her instructions. That meant this wasn’t the first time. That meant he’d been here before, staring into the abyss of his own mortality, knowing his little girl might be the one to find him.
Martin appeared at the partition, his gray hair disheveled, reading glasses perched on his nose. He opened his mouth to speak, but I held up a hand, mouthing the word Emergency while pointing at the phone. I scribbled on a notepad: Child alone. Father unconscious, possible DKA. Need to trace call.
Martin’s expression shifted instantly from annoyed to alert. He pulled out his phone, moving toward his office. But I knew what was coming. The hotline wasn’t set up for this. We were volunteers answering a children’s service, not 911 operators. We didn’t have tracing equipment. We didn’t have protocols for medical emergencies. We had nothing except my voice and a terrified four-year-old on the other end of the line.
“Riley, I need you to stay on the phone with me. Okay? Don’t hang up. Can you do that?”
“Okay.”
“Good girl. Now, can you tell me… is your daddy making any sounds? Any noises at all?”
A pause. Then, quietly: “No. Not anymore.”
My blood ran cold. “Not anymore? When did he stop making the funny breathing sounds?”
“I don’t know. A little bit ago. Before I called you. I thought… I thought maybe Santa could help. Because Santa helps people. I thought maybe…” Riley’s voice dissolved into a sob. “I thought maybe he could make Daddy better. I don’t want toys. I just want Daddy.”
I closed my eyes for a brief second, fighting against the wave of emotion threatening to crack my professional composure. When I opened them, Martin was standing in the doorway, shaking his head slowly.
No way to trace the call.
Of course not. But I had spent years in emergency services. I knew there were always ways. Unofficial ways. Ways that bent rules and broke protocols. Ways that could cost me everything if they went wrong.
Three years ago, I had followed protocol. I’d trusted the system. I dispatched an ambulance to the address given by the caller, exactly as stated, exactly as trained. The address had been wrong. By the time they’d figured it out, by the time they’d found the actual location, the patient had been dead for twelve minutes. I had been cleared of wrongdoing. The investigation had shown I’d done everything correctly. Everything by the book. But the patient was still dead. And I had never forgiven myself for not trusting my gut. For not questioning. For not pushing harder when something felt wrong.
I wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
“Riley,” I said, my voice carrying a new intensity. “I need you to be my special helper right now. Can you do that? Can you help me help your daddy?”
“Yes.” The small voice strengthened slightly, grasping at purpose like a lifeline.
“Perfect. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to play a game. A treasure hunt game. And every clue you give me is going to help Santa’s helpers find your house so they can come check on your daddy. Does that sound okay?”
“Okay.”
I pulled up a map of Burlington on my computer. My other hand moved to my personal phone, scrolling through contacts. There was one person who might be able to help. One person who still worked in emergency services, who still had access to systems I no longer touched. The question was whether she’d answer. Whether she’d forgive me enough to answer.
“Riley, let’s start with the big church you mentioned. The one with the lights. Can you see it from your house, or is it just close by?”
“I can see the pointy top from my window. The one with the cross thing on it.”
I scanned the map. Burlington had four major churches with steeples visible from residential areas. I needed to narrow it down.
“That’s excellent. Now, when your Grandma drove you home tonight… do you remember which way she turned? Did you go past stores, or was it mostly houses?”
“Houses. And the park. The one with the frozen pond where we feed the ducks in summer.”
Patterson Park. Northwest side of the city. My fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up street views, narrowing the radius. One of the churches in that area was St. Michael’s, the large Catholic church on Hillcrest Avenue. If Riley could see the steeple from her window, she lived within a half-mile radius.
Still too many houses.
I sent a text message to the contact in my phone: Jenna. This is Owen. I know you don’t want to hear from me. But I need help. Child in danger. Father unconscious. Need reverse trace on incoming call to 555-0147. Please.
I hit send and prayed.
“Riley, you’re doing amazing. I’m so proud of you. Now, can you tell me… does your street have a lot of cars parked on it, or is it pretty quiet?”
“It’s quiet. Mr. Thompson says it’s a cul-de-sac. That’s a funny word.”
Cul-de-sac. A cul-de-sac near Patterson Park with a view of St. Michael’s steeple. I zoomed in on the map. Three possible streets. Maybe forty houses total.
My phone buzzed. Jenna’s reply.
You have a lot of nerve. What’s the number?
I sent the restricted number from the call log, adding: Please hurry. 4-year-old alone. Father possible DKA, not breathing.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Finally: Give me two minutes.
I released a breath I hadn’t known I was holding.
“Riley, you’re the best helper Santa has ever had. I promise you that. Now, I need you to do something for me. Can you go to your front door? Don’t go outside. Just to the door. And tell me if you can see any numbers on the houses across the street.”
Small footsteps. The rustle of movement. I waited, counting my heartbeats, each one louder than the last.
“I see… I see a four… and a one… and a…” Riley paused. “And a six.”
416.
I mapped it. Cul-de-sac houses with even numbers on one side, odd on the other. Riley’s house was 411, which meant she could see 416 directly across. That narrowed it to two possible cul-de-sacs: Maple Ridge Circle or Whitmore Court.
My phone buzzed.
Jenna: Call originated from Landline. Address is 411 Whitmore Court. I’m dispatching now. Tell me you’re not making me break the law for nothing.
Owen: You’re saving a life. Thank you.
I switched back to Riley. “Sweetheart, you did it. You gave me all the clues I needed. Santa’s special helpers are on their way right now to check on your daddy. They’re going to have lights and maybe loud sirens. That means they’re coming to help. Okay? Don’t be scared.”
“Will they have the pretty red lights?”
“The prettiest red lights you’ve ever seen.”
I heard something in Riley’s voice shift. Not quite relief, but a loosening of the terrible tension. She’d done what her father had told her to do. She’d called for help, and help was coming.
“Can you stay on the phone with me until they get there?” I asked.
“Okay. Will you tell Santa thank you for helping?”
My throat tightened. “I will. I promise.”
In the background of the call, I heard Riley start to hum. A Christmas carol, off-key and fragmented, the melody wandering. I recognized it after a moment. Silent Night. The words she didn’t know, she filled in with nonsense syllables, her small voice carrying through the phone line like a thread connecting us across the dark winter night.
I glanced at the clock. 11:52 P.M.
Martin stood in the doorway watching me, his face grave. He’d figured out what I’d done. The unauthorized trace. The contact with emergency services. All of it outside protocol. I would answer for that later. Right now, the only thing that mattered was the little girl humming in the darkness, waiting for someone to save her father. Waiting for someone to prove that the magic she believed in was real.
Suddenly, the humming stopped.
“Owen?” Riley’s voice was barely a whisper.
“I’m here, Riley.”
“Daddy made a noise.”
“What kind of noise?” I asked, my grip on the desk tightening until my knuckles turned white.
“Like… like a bubble popping. In his throat.”
The death rattle. Or fluid aspiration. Either way, David Dawson was running out of time.
“Riley, listen to me. I need you to do something very brave again. Can you go back to the bathroom? Just stand at the door.”
“I… I don’t want to see him like that. He looks scary.”
“I know, sweetie. I know. But I need to know if he’s still moving his chest. Just peek. Can you peek for me?”
I heard her whimper, a tiny sound of pure terror, but then came the shuffle of socks on carpet. She was going. She was braver than any adult I knew.
“I’m looking,” she whispered.
“Is his chest moving, Riley? Up and down?”
Silence. One second. Two seconds. Three.
“No,” she said. “It stopped.”
Respiratory arrest.
“Riley,” I said, my voice commanding now, stripping away the Santa pretense for just a moment. “The helpers are almost there. I need you to go to the front door and unlock it. Right now. Run.”
“But Daddy—”
“Go to the door, Riley! Run!”
I heard the scramble of feet, the heavy breathing of a child sprinting for her life. Then the sound of the deadbolt turning.
“It’s open,” she panted.
“Good girl. Stay there. Do not move.”
11:56 P.M.
I heard it through the phone before Riley did. A distant wail cutting through the muffled silence of the snowfall. Sirens. Faint, but growing louder.
“Riley, do you hear that sound?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that them? Is that the helpers?”
“That’s them. They found your house. You did such a good job helping them find you.”
The sirens grew louder, clearer. I heard Riley’s breath quicken.
“The lights,” she whispered. “I see the red lights. Like you said. The pretty ones.”
“That’s right. Those are for you and your daddy.”
I heard the screech of tires on snow, the heavy slam of vehicle doors. Voices, professional and urgent, carrying across the front yard. Heavy footsteps on a porch.
“Burlington Fire Department! Anyone home?”
“I’m here!” Riley’s voice was small.
“Can you open the door, sweetheart?”
I heard the door opening. A blast of sound—radio chatter, wind, the controlled chaos of first responders arriving on scene.
“Hey there.” A woman’s voice, warm but efficient. “What’s your name, honey?”
“Riley. I called Santa’s helper. He told me you would come.”
A pause. I pictured the paramedics exchanging glances.
“You did?” The woman’s voice gentled. “That was very smart. Can you tell me where your daddy is?”
“In the bathroom upstairs. He won’t wake up.”
“Okay, we’re going to go check on him right now. Is anyone else in the house with you?”
“No. Just me and Daddy. Mommy’s at work.”
“Alright, Riley. I’m going to have my friend, Officer Kelly, stay here with you while we go help your daddy. Is that okay?”
“It’s okay,” Riley said. “Owen said you would help.”
“Owen?”
“He’s on the phone.”
There was a rustling sound, then a male voice came through the line. Authoritative, but confused.
“This is Officer Daniel Kelly, Burlington PD. Who am I speaking with?”
I straightened. “Owen Blake. I’m a volunteer operator with the North Pole Emergency Hotline. Riley called our service approximately fifteen minutes ago. I assessed the situation as a medical emergency and contacted dispatch through an emergency services contact.”
A beat of silence. “You’re not with 911?”
“No, sir. We’re a volunteer children’s hotline. When I realized her father was unconscious with symptoms consistent with diabetic ketoacidosis—and respiratory arrest just occurred—I initiated emergency protocols.”
Another pause. I could hear the officer processing the liability, the unauthorized trace, the sheer insanity of it.
“You did good,” Officer Kelly said finally. “Real good. The father’s in bad shape. They’re bagging him now. If you hadn’t picked up on this…” He didn’t finish. “I’m going to need your contact info.”
I gave it to him.
“Alright, Mr. Blake. Hang on.”
Rustling again. Then Riley.
“Owen?”
“I’m here, sweetheart.”
“The helpers are putting Daddy on a special bed with wheels. They’re taking him to the truck.”
“That’s exactly what they should be doing. They’re taking him to the hospital where your mommy works.”
“Officer Kelly says I have to go too. To see Mommy.”
“That sounds like a good plan.”
“Owen?” Riley’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Thank you for helping. You’re a really good helper.”
My throat constricted so tight I could barely speak. “You’re the one who helped, Riley. You saved your daddy’s life tonight. You were so brave.”
“Will Santa bring my daddy his medicine for Christmas? So his body doesn’t get sick anymore?”
I closed my eyes. How did you explain to a four-year-old that some things were beyond fixing? That chronic illness didn’t disappear with magic?
“Santa’s going to make sure your daddy has everything he needs,” I said carefully. “But the most important present your daddy’s going to get is having you.”
“Okay.” She sounded satisfied.
“Bye, Owen. I have to go now.”
“Bye, Riley. You did such a good job tonight. I’m so proud of you.”
“Maybe I can call again. To tell you if Daddy’s okay.”
I felt my chest ache. “I’d like that very much.”
The line went dead.
I sat in the sudden silence, the headset still pressed against my ear, listening to the dial tone. Around me, the booth felt impossibly small. The Christmas lights that hadn’t worked in two years seemed dimmer. The plastic tree leaned further to the left, as if bearing the weight of what had just happened.
Slowly, I removed the headset. My hands shook slightly—adrenaline crash.
Martin stood in the doorway. “Tell me you didn’t just do what I think you did.”
“I traced a call without authorization,” I said. “I contacted emergency services through a personal contact. I broke at least four volunteer protocols.”
Martin nodded slowly. “That’s what I thought.” He set down his cold coffee on my desk. “The Board’s going to want to talk to you. Probably tomorrow.”
“I understand.”
“Owen.” Martin’s voice softened. “What you did tonight… it probably saved that man’s life. You know that, right?”
“Maybe.”
“Not maybe. Definitely. But it’s also going to be a nightmare to explain. We’re a children’s hotline. We don’t have the liability insurance for this. If that father had died while you were on the phone…”
“I know.”
“Do you? Do you really? Because three years ago you made a call that went wrong. That’s why you’re here instead of on an ambulance. And tonight you made another call. This one worked out. But what about next time?”
I looked down at my hands. “There won’t be a next time. After tomorrow’s meeting, I probably won’t be allowed back.”
Martin sighed. “Probably not. But for what it’s worth… I would have done the same thing.”
He turned and walked back to his office.
I gathered my things. My coat, my bag, my keys. The shift was supposed to end at midnight, but it was 12:03 A.M. now. As I locked up the booth, I caught my reflection in the darkened window. For three years, I’d been a ghost. A man going through the motions. Tonight, I’d been a paramedic again. And it terrified me.
I walked out into the December cold. My car was buried under four inches of fresh powder. But for a moment, I just stood there in the parking lot, face turned up to the sky, letting snowflakes land on my cheeks.
Somewhere across the city, a four-year-old girl was sitting in a hospital waiting room, clutching a stuffed bear, waiting to hear that her father would live. And I had helped make that possible. It wouldn’t erase what happened three years ago. It wouldn’t bring back the patient I’d failed. But it was something.
I brushed the snow off my car and drove home. I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. I didn’t know if I’d still have a place at the hotline. I didn’t know if Riley’s father would recover.
But I knew one thing: tonight, when it mattered most, I hadn’t followed protocol. I had followed my gut. And a little girl would have her father for Christmas.
That had to count for something. But as I pulled into my driveway, my phone buzzed with a text from Jenna.
Patient stabilized. But Owen… you need to know who the father is. It’s David Dawson. The son of the man who died on your watch three years ago.
My phone slipped from my hand and fell into the snow. The past hadn’t just caught up with me. It had come full circle.