I shook my head. “It’s not going to matter.” I positioned myself for best access and then slid the applicator into the patient’s mouth, resting the end against the soft palate. I wedged the nearer end of the applicator against the lower jaw, to offer a bit of leverage. I looked up at Soto. She nodded and backed up a step.

“Delivering the payload,” I said, and pressed the button to prime the release. Some newer versions of the applicator automated the entire process and handled it by phone app, but I preferred manual control of the event. I waited the five seconds until the payload was primed, and pressed the button again.

The applicator released a burst of compressed nitrogen, forcefully driving the payload capsule through the soft palate and into the patient’s brain. After two seconds the applicator chimed, signaling it had received data from the payload confirming it was lodged in the brain.

“Activating the payload,” I said, and pressed the button a third and final time.

The payload exploded in the patient’s brain, killing him instantly.

I had purposefully and intentionally killed a man. I was the direct and immediate cause of his death.

That’s who I am. That’s my job.

I’m a Dispatcher.

Soto came back up to the table. “How long now?”

I opened my mouth to answer and the patient disappeared; there was a “pop” and a brief inrush of air as it moved to fill the void previously occupied by a body. Only the body disappeared. Everything else—the intubation tubes, the catheters and IV lines, the thin medical blankets draping the body—collapsed onto the operating table.

Eight years of doing this, and that never stops being weird.

I pulled out my cell phone and made a call.

Chao, several feet away, looked outraged. “I said no cell phones.”

I looked over to her. “Doctor, with all due respect, it hardly matters now.” Chao’s face twisted up and she pushed out of the operating room. Everyone else stayed.

“Agency retrieval,” a voice said on the other end of the line.

“Tony Valdez,” I said. “Dispatcher 1717.”

“Go ahead.”

“I need a confirmation on a client, named Allen Ostergard. I dispatched him home roughly a minute ago.”

“Please hold.” There was a click and smooth jazz came on the line. I looked over to Soto. “I’m on hold.”

“Does that happen often?”

“It usually takes a couple of minutes to confirm delivery.” Soto nodded. That made sense to her.

The voice came back on the line. “Dispatcher 1717.”

“Yes.”

“Confirm the client was successfully dispatched, and is at home. He is awake, aware and resting comfortably. Congratulations on a successful dispatch.”

“Thank you.” I hung up and looked at the remaining team. “The patient made it. He’s fine. I’m guessing you might be seeing him again here.”

Soto smiled. “Maybe not with Dr. Chao as the surgeon.”

I smiled back. “No, maybe not.”