“Is this the Smith residence?” A professional-sounding female voice asked.
“Yes ma’am,” I responded as politely as I could to make up for my earlier ‘oops’. “How may I help you?”
“Is this Robert Smith? My name’s Sharon. I’m a 9-1-1 dispatcher.”
I could feel the blood drain from my face. “What’s going on?” I asked, failing miserably at my attempts to contain the panic I felt welling up within already.