Calling 911 brings help, right? For most of my life I have understood that to be true. Growing up in a small Ohio vacation town as the daughter of a police officer and volunteer firefighter I was familiar with the world of emergencies. Multiple summer mornings I woke to the scanner tones and heard the dispatch give our address as the location of the call. The first few times it happened I flew out of bed in a panicked pursuit of a stricken family member only to learn it was someone at our front door looking for help. Symptoms of a heart attack. A fishhook caught in an arm. Heat stroke. A Lake Erie rock thrown at the back of a head. Our porch steps were an open triage unit if the police car was parked in front of the house. If my step-father called for additional help and a transport to the hospital, our small yard filled with black cases of medical equipment, a gurney, and the guys who graduated high school a couple years ahead of me who were now volunteering. 911 called. Help arrived.

That paradigm might have been turned completely upside down on Nathaniel’s first night home.