I was answering calls in a library that never ended

I'm walking through stacks that stretch into fog, the phones on every desk ringing at once. No one else is there—just me and the voices. A woman says her cat’s been missing for three days. I tell her to check under the bookshelf. She laughs. Then she says, 'But the bookshelf isn’t here anymore.' And I look down and the floor is made of old emergency call logs. I keep answering. The tone doesn’t change. Just the same voice, over and over. Like I’ve been doing it for years. Like I’m supposed to.