In four days, it will have been twenty-eight years since my parents died in a plane crash. Friday, three days before Thanksgiving. Sometimes it feels like I lost them yesterday. Other times, it's like it happened another lifetime ago. It was probably their crash that caused my nightmare. After all, I'd had other dreams about plane crashes—my shrink told me it was to be expected—but none had been like the one from last night, not even the ones that replayed my parents' deaths. It just felt so incredibly real, like I was actually on the plane and not sleeping in my bed, in my Toronto townhouse. Safe on the ground.

I woke up and went through the motions. The morning constitutional. A long, hot shower. Feeding Harvey, my gorgeous gray tabby cat. Grabbing something to eat and downing coffee. As I waited for another one to brew, I studied my reflection in a compact. The face looking back at me belonged to a forty-three-year-old divorcee and mother of a nineteen-year-old woman. Lines were starting to move in around the eyes and mouth, and the brows were starting to sag—just a little, but I was in denial. I pulled up on my left eyebrow and imagined both eyes the way they'd been in my twenties. No draping skin, perfect for applying eyeshadow, but I would let nature take its course. No Botox for me. I kept my eyebrows plucked and narrow and had full lips my best friend, Trish Gamble, had always envied. My hair went past my shoulders and was blond with highlights from a bottle. The baby hairs framing my face and my roots were gray, but I wasn't ready to let them run wild just yet.

"See you, Harvey." I talked to my cat as if he were a human being. To me, he was as much a part of the family as my daughter, Jenna. Little Harvey and I had become quite close over the last five years. I'd adopted him for Jenna after her father, Chris Pittman, and I had separated, but when she went to university, Harvey stayed. Not that I'd ever regretted the idea. He'd been by my side through the divorce and the move back to Toronto from where I'd lived with Chris in London, Ontario.

I headed out of my townhouse at just after six. If I hit the lights just right, I'd be ten minutes early for my twelve-hour shift that started at seven.

The autumn air was crisp and cool. I burrowed into my coat and watched as my breath ascended in wisps of white, all the while wishing away the scattered imagery from the dream-slash-nightmare. Really, nightmare would be a better definition than dream. What was more troubling was how it clung to me, like I'd lived through it somehow, more like a memory than a figment of my subconscious.

"Maybe I'm just losing my mind," I said out loud to no one but myself. That fact alone convinced me I might be onto something. After all, only crazy people talked to themselves.

I got into my Ford Focus and let it warm up for a few minutes before driving off. I needed to be at the Toronto Police Service dispatch center in time for the pre-shift "parade" which took place at six forty-five. The parade informed new arrivals of situations in progress. We also found out if we'd be fielding calls or working dispatch.

I had my brother, Jason, to thank for my job as a communications operator. While my divorce netted me a livable sum of money, I needed something to keep me busy and give me purpose. As it turned out, working for the TPS as a communications officer was a blessing, but it wouldn't be a job for everyone. In fact, there was a lot of turnover in staff. The hours were long and the rotating shifts hard, but it was what we faced on a daily basis that tested our character.

Traffic was favorable and so were the lights. It was six thirty when I pulled into the lot for work. By the time I carted myself into the parade-slash-lunchroom, I still had five minutes to spare.

The unit commander heading up the parade today was Jayne Loughlin. She was a civilian, like me. It used to be that each platoon was overseen by a staff sergeant, but about ten years ago, they changed the command structure to a civilian one. At higher levels, we were still overseen by a superintendent and the deputy chief.

Loughlin was a large woman. Five eleven, solid build, and she could probably bench press my five-foot-six, one-hundred-thirty-two-pound frame without breaking a sweat. She was standing at the head of the room and bid me a good morning as I took a seat in the front row, and I replied in kind. We'd never really connected personally, but on the job, we had a mutual respect for each another. In fact, as a group, operators had a very tight sense of comradery. It probably had to do with the fact we could relate to what our fellow colleagues were going through and had been through. Most people were familiar with the term "Thin Blue Line," but as a group, we represented the "Thin Gold Line."

There were already about fifteen people in the room when Lauren Wells dropped into the chair beside me.

"Good morning, Erin." Lauren was smiling, a smile only Lauren could pull off. It immediately lit up the room, and sometimes I wondered how she could always be so happy in spite of the job we did, the things we heard, the situations we dealt with. I loved her cheery disposition, even if she was a morning person—something I couldn't completely relate to. It took me a cup of coffee before I wanted to talk to anyone, and two to be personable. I imagined Lauren hopped out of bed with a bounce in her step and a grin on her face.

"Morning." I smiled back, then took a pull on my third coffee of the day, thankful it was my only real vice. Many of my coworkers struggled with serious addictions.

Lauren swept her long, brown hair over a shoulder and pulled out a notebook and pen.

The room filled up fast after that—approximately another twenty people. At any given time, there was a minimum of seventeen dispatchers and anywhere between twelve and twenty call-takers assigned to each shift.

Loughlin commenced the meeting. The good news was there wasn't a whole lot going on, but the bad news was that might mean a slow shift—though that could change on a dime. Each shift really was like pulling the handle on a slot machine; you never knew if you were going to be passing the time tapping your fingers or hopping with a nonstop barrage of calls and requests from officers in the field.

Loughlin called an end to the parade and doled out our assignments and where we'd be sitting. "Stone, you'll be taking calls today."

At that point, I stopped listening and left the room to get to work. I parked behind my desk, throwing my coat over the back of the chair and tucking my purse next to my feet. We used to have lockers and a real place to put our personal belongings, but with reallocation of square footage and the fact we now shared the building with other police units, we ended up with less space. Another reason our parade room doubled as our lunchroom. Even the room we work in wasn't that expansive. It was L-shaped, and while dispatchers and call-takers didn't necessarily have eye contact, we were able to maintain situational awareness.

I signed into my phone and computer, and not even ten seconds later, my line was ringing. As I answered, I prepared my mind to handle whatever situation might be on the other end. It could be anything on the scale of petty to serious. I'd never forget being on the line with a man who took his last breath and then picking up the next call to someone complaining about a parking ticket he'd received. It certainly took patience, understanding, and strong intuition for this job.

And while my time at work was never routine, my personal life was in fairly good order. It had taken three years after my divorce to get to this point, and it was rather nice having some calm and predictability after leaving here. If only I knew my entire life was soon about to change—to flip upside down, in fact.

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