Condensation, not sweat, beads upon my pale flesh. I fumble with the phone, cool plastic sliding as I try to hang up. “911 is not a joke, ma’am,” the operator snaps. My own voice emerges so twisted, so altered, that any hope of normalcy is smothered beneath my abrupt lisp. The operator’s familiar intonation should be a comfort-a constant in a world inverted, a stark truth within an impossible reality.