The Radio Stayed Silent

I am still thinking about the empty boots on the seat. It was cheap, theatrical, and it worked. I am ashamed that I enjoyed Rhys turning around, even briefly. Sometimes survival depends on making fear look ridiculous, but I wanted him afraid for longer than I needed to.

The radio gave me nothing. Every few minutes I adjusted the volume as if a fraction more signal could turn silence into instruction. Nia’s coveralls still smelled of diesel and someone else’s shift. I kept thinking she would want them back and what I would say when I saw her again. Probably nothing useful. Probably, I nearly got you noticed.

At the pub, I watched the entrance until my meal went cold. I heard Dain’s name twice, and each time my body prepared for a fight I did not want. Anger is clean compared with fear. Anger tells me what to do. Fear only tells me what to watch.

I wanted the wharf to give me a clean answer: tracks, fresh cuts, a line leading somewhere obvious. Instead, the mud offered half-marks and ambiguity. I hate when the truth is not a direction.

There was one private, ugly hope under all the searching. I hoped whoever used the radio knew I was alive and was coming without being asked. I hope that is not the same as wanting rescue.