Chapter 15 — Calls are not allowed to be hung up

Dan answered the call in a split second, putting aside all thoughts about Vinh, about the two doors, about everything other than the voice she was about to hear.

— Operator, listen, it's Ms. Dan.

Dan spoke into the receiver, her voice quieter than usual, almost a whisper, a reflex that came naturally after five tense phone calls earlier that same long night. There was no immediate reply. There was only a very small breath, shallow and rapid, different from the previous whispers, as if the child was trying to hold his breath almost completely, only letting the breath pass through the half-closed lips.

— My child, I listen to you. If you can't speak, breathe softly once to let me know you're okay.

There was a long, suffocating silence, lasting maybe only two or three seconds, but enough for Dan to feel like a minute had passed, then a light breath, so light, sounded through the line.

Dan closed her eyes, a fragile feeling of relief crept into the thick layer of tension that was covering her. She understood immediately, this time the child did not dare to type as usual, perhaps because he was too close to someone, too close that any sound, no matter how small, could be detected.

This was a different level of danger than previous calls, and Dan knew he needed to adjust his methods immediately. The sound of typing, although small, still creates a clear sound that can echo out into the quiet space of a room at nearly three in the morning. But breathing, if controlled softly enough, is almost undetectable to anyone not holding their ear to that exact spot.

She signaled Anh Tuyet to switch the call with Vinh to completely silent standby mode, ensuring that no noise from the switchboard could accidentally leak into the open line with the child. Such a small mistake, even if unintentional, could become disastrous if the other man heard any strange sounds coming from the phone that was supposed to be silent in his pocket or under his pillow.

— I will ask you a few questions, you don't need to breathe loudly, just breathe a little softly and that's enough for me to hear. One breath means it's right, but two consecutive breaths means it's not right, do you understand what I mean?

A light breath. Have.

— Is your mother still near you?

One breath.

— Is your uncle near you?

Two consecutive breaths, less than a second apart, as if the child was trying to answer quickly to minimize the risk of being heard.

Dan scribbled in the notebook, his hand shaking slightly but the writing was still legible: his uncle was not nearby, maybe in another room or had slept over. She tried to imagine the scene: a child nestled in some dark corner of the house, the phone pressed so close to his ear that it was almost glued, only daring to let his breath pass through the smallest gap possible.

— Has your mother woken up yet?

There was a long silence, much longer than before, making Dan worry whether the child was having difficulty answering this question or not, because this was not simply an easy yes or no question. Then there was a soft breath, followed by a second breath immediately after, separated by a small pause, as if the child was trying to express something between yes and no.

— Your mother is awake but can't talk yet, is that right?

One breath, decisively. Dan quickly wrote in the notebook, a feeling of relief mixed with anxiety rising at the same time: at least the mother was still conscious, but her health condition was still worrying.

At that moment, another sound crept into the background of the call, very quiet but enough for Dan to immediately recognize, because she had heard similar sounds countless times in her life: a long "creaking" sound, metal rubbing against each other, exactly like the sound of a heavy metal door being forced open.

Dan's heart was pounding. She immediately remembered what Anh Tuyet said about the Lam Dien apartment building, the elevator's automatic doors had been broken for many years, and no one had fixed them. Perhaps someone in the building, familiar with the manual operation of the broken elevator, still secretly used it at late hours when there were no people, pushing the door by hand each time up and down.

She turned to Anh Tuyet, gestured with her hand to her ear and then pointed to the paper map still spread out on the table, a signal the two of them thought of tonight to communicate without having to speak. Anh Tuyet immediately understood, nodded, took a pen and quickly circled the location of the elevator well based on Vinh's initial description of the hallway layout, comparing the wooden door located near the middle of the hallway, while the iron door was located completely off to the far corner.

She quickly wrote on a piece of paper and pushed it in front of Dan: "The elevator well is in the middle of the hallway, right next to the room with the wooden door."

— My child, did you hear that noise just now?

One breath.

— That sound is very clear, isn't it, like it's right next to your room?

One breath, clear, decisive.

Dan squeezed the pen in his hand, feeling like an electric current ran down his spine, spreading to his fingertips. If the sound of a broken elevator could be heard that clearly, the child's apartment must be located very close to the elevator shaft, much closer than an apartment at the other end of the hallway. This was the last piece of the puzzle she needed, the piece that could turn a fifty percent guess into an almost absolute certainty. She quickly searched her mind for the layout of the two apartments that Vinh had described: the blue-painted iron door was located in the far corner of the hallway, and the wooden door with children's slippers was located right next to the elevator well area.

She reopened the waiting communication channel with Vinh, quickly typing a text message instead of making a voice call to avoid making any noise that could be transmitted to the main call: "Wooden door. More secure. She clearly heard the sound of a broken elevator, which means the house is close to the elevator well."

Three small dots appeared immediately on the screen, signaling that Vinh was typing a reply. Just a few seconds later, his message appeared: "Received. I'm standing right in front of that door."

Dan breathed a sigh of relief for a split second, but immediately had to pull himself back to a state of absolute concentration, because the main call with the child was still going on, and every second of inattention could mean missing an important signal.

She returned to the main call, her voice still remaining absolutely gentle.

— You're great, you're doing very well. She asked me one last question, do you feel it is safe to continue in that place, or do you need to find another more private place?

There was a long silence, with no immediate breathing response. Dan waited, counting each passing second, feeling like time was expanding to infinity.

Then, a soft breath rang out, just once. Yes, you are safe here, at least for this moment.

— Okay, just stay there, don't move anymore. I'm trying to find a way to help you, it's almost done, just wait a little longer for me.

Dan didn't know if that promise was really true or not, but she knew she needed to say it, needed to give the child something to hold on to in this scary moment, even though she herself was clinging to that same promise just as much.

— I won't hang up, can you just leave the phone open like that?

A soft breath responded, then there was a long silence, not the terrifying silence like before, but a silence with a more regular rhythm, as if the child had found a position safe enough to wait without the need for constant tension.

Dan kept his headphones on, not daring to take his eyes off the sound wave display screen, where the graph was almost flat with only occasional small, steady ripples following the child's breathing. She has learned to read those ridges like a separate language, distinguishing normal breathing from panic breathing, distinguishing a breath that is intentionally emitted in response from a natural breath that carries no message.

Anh Tuyet sat next to her, still holding a note in her hand, her eyes never leaving the screen, occasionally nodding slightly every time Dan asked a suitable question, a silent but steady companionship between the two women who had gone through countless difficult nights together over the past eight years.

Bao Ky sat in the back, holding the phone connected to Vinh in standby mode, eyes watching every change on the main screen, ready to relay any important information as soon as Dan needed it.