Wrong Number

Wrong Number is a tender, slow-building romance that begins with a mistyped digit and one very bad night. At 2:14 a.m. in an Austin hospital waiting room…

I. 2:14 a.m.

The text arrived in Anchorage at ten past ten in the evening, in the middle of a very long shift, and Leo Brandt almost didn't look at it. He was on his break, in the staff kitchen of the dispatch center, with a cup of bad coffee and a view of the parking lot, where a moose was eating a bush. It had been a heavy night already. A house fire in Muldoon. A fall on the ice. A man in a truck, drunk, who had called 911 to ask whether it was legal to drive a snowmachine through a Fred Meyer. Leo had spent eleven years sitting in the dark in a headset, listening to the worst moments of other people's lives, and he had developed a rule: you take your fifteen minutes. You drink your coffee. You do not look at your phone. He looked at his phone. Unknown number: Dad's out of surgery. They said the next 24 hrs are critical. I'm in the family waiting room and I don't know what to do with my hands. Where are you? Please pick up when you see this. He read it twice. His stomach dropped, in the old, familiar way. It was not meant for him. He knew that at once. He did not know a single person who would write a message like that to a man he'd never met. But somewhere, in the dark, at what had to be one or two in the morning wherever she was, a person was sitting in a plastic chair under fluorescent lights with her father in a bed somewhere beyond a set of double doors, and she had typed the message with shaking thumbs, and sent it to the wrong person. He thought about it for exactly four seconds. Then he typed. Leo: I think this might be the wrong number. I'm so sorry, I'm a stranger. But I didn't want to just ignore it. Is your dad okay? The reply came in under a minute. Unknown number: Oh my God. I'm so sorry. I must have mistyped. It's my brother, he works up on the Slope and I always get the last digit wrong. Sorry, I'll leave you alone. The little dots appeared, and disappeared, and appeared again. Unknown number: I don't know why I'm still typing. Leo set down his coffee. He looked at the moose in the parking lot, who looked back. Leo: It's okay. I'm awake. I work nights. If you want to tell someone what the doctors said, I'm a pretty good person to tell. I'm very good at listening and very bad at advice. There was a long pause. Unknown number: It's his heart. Valve replacement. They said it went well but he's 71 and he was already so weak. They said "we'll know more in the morning." Nobody says what that means. Leo: It means they're watching him closely, and he's in the best possible place for it. It doesn't mean it's bad. It means they don't know yet. That's the hardest part. Unknown number: How do you know that? Leo: I'm a 911 dispatcher. I spend most of my life with people in the middle of not knowing yet. A longer pause this time. He imagined her reading it. He had no idea what she looked like, and he found he had stopped imagining anything but a hand holding a phone, and a very tired face. Unknown number: I'm Jo. Leo: Leo. Jo: It's 2:14 in the morning here. Austin. What time is it there? Leo: Ten past ten. Anchorage. Jo: Alaska? My brother's in Alaska. That's how I got your number. I mean, how I got a number. Leo: Well, I'd say your aim was off by exactly one digit. She sent back a single laughing face, the kind you type when you haven't laughed in a while and are surprised that you remember how. He sat in the staff kitchen of the Anchorage dispatch center, with fourteen minutes of break left, and a million small emergencies waiting on the other side of the wall, and typed with both thumbs until the clock said it was time to go back. Leo: I have to go back to work. But I'm up until seven your time. Text me if you want. I won't mind. I swear. Jo: Okay. Thank you, stranger. She texted him four more times that night, between two and five. Small things. They let me see him. He looks small. The nurse says his color is better. I'm drinking terrible vending machine tea. He squeezed my hand. He answered every one, between calls, in the dark, with a headset around his neck. At a quarter to six, Texas time, she wrote: I'm going to try to sleep in the chair. Thank you for staying up. You didn't have to. He looked at it for a long moment. Leo: Goodnight, Jo. I hope he's better in the morning.

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Quick answers about Wrong Number

What is Wrong Number about?

Wrong Number is a tender, slow-building romance that begins with a mistyped digit and one very bad night. At 2:14 a.m. in an Austin hospital waiting room…

Is Wrong Number free to read?

Yes. Every story on RapidTale is free to read in the browser, with no sign-up and nothing to install.

How long does it take to read?

This story runs 7 chapters — most readers finish in one sitting, and you can stop and return to any chapter using the contents list.

Who wrote it?

Nimra Khan — original fiction published on RapidTale.