atypicalartists.co/breakerwhiskey

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

It took me the better part of a day but I think I’ve done it. I think I’ve written out your whole message. It…I honestly have no idea what it says. I was so focused on the individual letters, barely any words formed from it as I went.

I…I should go get Harry. But she’s sleeping and…I think she needs the rest. After—we’re still working through things and I think—no, I know—we will be for a very long time. As we waited for your message to finish transmitting, we talked a lot. We maybe got a little…distracted from time to time, but she put it all out on the table, everything she’d been thinking and feeling that she didn’t tell me. Things she didn’t even write in her notebook. And I told her things…we aired grievances and shared the times when we thought we might get close to something, back in New York. She talked about how she felt about Pete and listened to me when I talked about him and…and she was really kind when I couldn’t parse the good from the bad, when I didn’t want to just write him off as a violent criminal. I mean, I don’t…well, there are a lot of things I need to work through and it doesn’t all have to do with Harry.  

Well. I could fill you in on all of it, on every detail, but…these broadcasts have been mine, separate from Harry, as much as anything in my life can be separate from Harry, and there are some things with her that are separate from the world. At least for now. 

I know I said I might stop transmitting now that we’re safe and I think…I think I am going to take a break. Disappear for a little while like you’re so fond of doing. I’m—well, I think I’m happy and I’m not totally sure what to do with that feeling. Especially since it’s laced with…well, Junior is still out there, we’re still trapped here and even though I know what it’s like to kiss her, to— I don’t think I’ve forgiven Harry yet, not fully. She knows that, she…she’s understanding of it. Genuinely. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to try to get there. Especially since I know I haven’t been the paragon of healthy communication and perfect relationship behavior so there are things that I need to…that I need her forgiveness on and, well, I think she wants to try to get there too. 

All that said—well, I don’t know what I’m going to find in your message and I hope it’s not goodbye forever, but maybe this is a goodbye for now. I want only good things for you Birdie. I hope you get a little peace of mind. A little closure. I’m discovering eve the tiniest glimpse of it really does wonders. 

Okay. Here we go. 

“Dear Whiskey, 

I am sorry that we couldn’t meet. You find yourself in a watch tower of my own creation. I wasn’t positive it would still be functioning in this timeline—you never do know when an earthquake or a storm is going to cause something to come toppling down—but I’m relieved to find that it is. I do wish I could have been there myself, but we can only enter timelines through great pains and effort and I have already interfered far more than we are meant to. Though I suppose my hand was forced when I ceased to be the only one communicating with you.

The person you know as Fox is, as you guessed, a purist. They want all people in all places to be instead in one place, following one path. They do not believe that anyone should be free to make their own choices and live with the consequences. They would prefer to guide your hand into another choice you cannot take back, all in service of what they deem to be correct. They know what they are; they even told you directly. Though they are not the figment of an author’s imagination, they are as close to Eternity as one can get. Though in this case, they are not the norm, but a rebel.

And I cannot claim there is nothing to re—rebel against. It is not a perfect system. It is hard, to watch people suffer in the worlds of their own creation, with no obvious recourse. Sometimes these timelines correct themselves, merging with each other or disappearing entirely. But even we, the keepers and observers of these strands, cannot fully comprehend the intricacies of why certain shifts are created. 

As you know, you are not the first person for whom I have tried to bring comfort in a lonely universe. Not all alternate worlds are as empty as yours, but some are even emptier. And yours, was of course, becoming more empty all the time, though that may not be a bad thing for every person involved. 

Fox told you you’re too late because the timeline has shifted once again. I’ll explain that in a moment but first I need to talk about the shift that preceded it, that caused an angry man to seek vengeance. A few months ago, Fred Billings’ mother—“

Fred. That’s his name. Fred. Wow, I, uh—anyway—

“Fred Billings’ mother, who was her—who was here, vanished from this place and merged with her correct timeline. Both Fred and his father perished in a car accident on New Year’s Eve 1974, and the widow Billings’ life was forever changed. Fred woke up here one day to find that his mother—who he had lived with in some degree of contentment for the last six years—had vanished. Meanwhile, she was waking up in the place she was from, with no memory of this world. 

That’s what would have happened if you had killed Junior. Or, at least, that is what Fox and I both suspected. That it would have aligned enough with the timeline of your origin and you would’ve been sent back. But you should know, if that were to happen, all of this would seem like a strange dream. Your memories of the last seven years would be filled with the experience of that other you. The events you’ve experienced here would not inform your life. I have not brought you here to keep you from making that decision for yourself, but because I thought you deserved to have all the information relevant to what Fox was asking you to do. They forced my hand when they told you to kill Fred—I could not let you do that without knowing the full consequences. 

However, it is a moot point. As I said, something in the timeline has shifted again. You have merged—you have merged with another offshoot, your circumstances have once again changed. I wish I could give you the information that would help you navigate this new world—I wish I knew if this meant more potential allies or if this meant that you were closer to getting back home than you were before. But we cannot see all. Fox has their ways of seeing more than most, but I suspect even they are uncertain of what this shift has brought. 

I do know that yours and Harry’s fates are irreversibly intertwined. I cannot think of a decision on any timeline that would separate you as you are now. In that sense, I take comfort in knowing you will never be truly alone. 

On that subject, I have a final gift for you. I know you are going to cease transmitting soon. And I understand that, I do. But before you go silent, look at the radio system in front of you—“

…okay… 

“Turn it on and tune to the very last frequency. Then switch on the delta tune to the positive and access the off-frequency just beyond that final channel. 

Through some error that I know my superiors would like to correct, your transmissions have been reaching out—have been reaching outside of your world. In the same way that visions of the world you came from have bled into where you are now—” The polaroids I’m guessing— “your words have reached beyond their usual bounds. It is why they were able to reach your friends from across the country and after a year of listening to you, I have yet to figure out why this is happening at all.

Perhaps now that you are no longer alone, you don’t need this particular comfort. But you have spent all this time calling into the dark, hoping someone was listening, hoping someone would call back. Hoping that someone out there would find you. 

You were found a long time ago. You were never really lost or alone. Many of them were alone, before they heard your voice. But the moment you called out, there were voices calling back, even if you couldn’t hear them. 

Your friend, 
Birdie”

What…I don’t…I don’t understand—

Okay, tune to the last frequency…let’s see

[turning to the frequency]

“You were found a long time ago”…Who found—

[gets to the last frequency and then—

a cacophony of different voices, all the messages that Whiskey has not been receiving, from infinite timelines]

(an intake of breath)

Oh my god.

[static]

[click]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Sorry it’s been a few days, Birdie—we spent a little time sightseeing. Now that Harry is out and about, she seems very keen on seeing whatever she can. I won’t tell you exactly what we saw, but it was a national park and it was breathtaking. 

Speaking of not saying things…you told me not to say things aloud—I’m assuming things in response to your messages—and then you said, very worryingly “You have gun too. Received.”

I’d been hoping that was some kind of error on your part, but even as an error it doesn’t make any sense. I received that message from Fox, but just like I told Fox, I don’t have a gun anymore, considering I had to abandon my car and everything in it. And, for what it’s worth, I haven’t picked another one up. Harry wants us too—lord knows we’ve passed enough places that stock them—but I don’t see the point, not when I’m still no good at hunting. I definitely don’t have any plans to use it on anything but a wild animal. And I’m sure as shit not teaching Harry how to shoot and if there’s one thing stupider than having a gun in the first place, it’s having a gun around someone who doesn’t know how to use one. 

So what exactly are you trying to tell me? You gave me numbers, numbers that I’m fairly certain are the first part of coordinates, but I’m going to need a lot more than that. I—

[a knock on the door]

Hold on, I think that’s Harry. 

[click, static for a while]

[click]

Alright, sorry about that but, uh, well, I think we’ve figured it out? Or Harry figured it out. You were trying to tell me the date that that message was received. Same thing as with the letter date. You’re giving me more numbers. Is that…is that right?

If this is all going to be dates, than I’m going to assume the year isn’t part of it. It’d be strange to have one-nine-seven-five or seven-four in multiple different places in coordinates. When I do have all the numbers, I guess I’ll figure out the hours, minutes, and seconds. I’m at least assuming you’re giving it to me in order, and I think it’s safe to say that we’re looking at the general northwest quadrant of the country. But correct me on any of that if I’m wrong. 

Thankfully, I know the date for this one too, given I write down every morse code message I get. And don’t worry, I won’t say it on here, but I I’m fairly certain I’m right. I guess you’ll just have to trust me. 

[click, static]

[beeps]

.--. .. -.-. -.- . -.. / -.-. .. - .-. ..- ... / ..-. .-. ..- .. -

Picked citrus fruit

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

“You are the stone”. 

[click, static]

Does that? Does that mean what I think it means? That…that all of this—what the world is now, the lack of people, Leann—are you trying to tell me its all my fault?

How could—how does that even work? If—if this really is about something I did…I mean, fuck, I don’t know what to do with that. Even though it’s something I’ve thought about, something I’ve worried about, I never actually believed I had that kind of power. 

Is it…is it because of…?

[click, static]

Jesus, why am I asking you? I haven’t even told you what I—

Wait, okay, if I’m the stone, I’m the one who made a ripple that somehow dragged Leann into all of this, then how do you fit into this, huh?

And by you I mean both you morse code lunatics. Are you connected to me somehow? I mean, you must be, right? Except you seem to know what’s going on here, even if you won’t tell me, so are you…

I mean, are you—

(laughing)

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

“There are others. Some connected, some not”. That’s what you said. 

[click, static]

Fuck, why am I still listening to you? You and Birdie both, you know just how to play me, know when to give me just enough tantalizing information that I find myself sitting by the radio, just waiting for your next transmission. 

It’s…(laughs) I’ve had this completely out there thought every now and then that you—one of you—is actually Harry after all. I don’t know if it’s just because she’s now my only reference point for people that aren’t me, or if it’s the psychological mind games, but there are just some moments…

It’s ridiculous, I know it is. Not only because of the information that you’ve both given me—I mean, some of it might be crap, stuff that Harry could’ve made up, but the coordinates sure as shit were real. It’s not just that though, it’s that…

I don’t think Harry is that cruel. She liked to play with emotions, that’s for sure and certain, but she wouldn’t…she wouldn’t get my hopes up like this, over and over again. Or, I mean, she did do exactly that a lot over the last fucking decade but—

Harry wants there to be other people just as much as I do. She might not admit it, might be too scared of the potential consequences to go and seek answers out herself, but she doesn’t like living in this world anymore than I do. She just…she’s just convinced herself that it’s penance. That being trapped with me, forced to look at me every single day but never—

[click, static]

You know, that’s what she said to me in that last big fight? One of the things she said anyway. That it was torture, for her. Sharing a space with me, orbiting around each other like planets on a collision course. But it was karmic justice, that she would have to be in the gravity well of the one person who has the best reason to never want to speak to her again if she told the truth. 

And, of course, she was right about some of it. I didn’t want to speak to her after she told me the truth. Especially since I’d finally told her the truth, the full truth that’s made every day since I met her a kind of slow burning agony—

[click, static]

Anyway. Harry wouldn’t mess with me, not in this way. She wouldn’t give me false hope, not when she’s holding onto her own with bloody fingers. 

So maybe if I can figure out the cause, the—the stone that caused the ripple for lack of a better way of putting it—maybe then I can figure out where those waves might have gone. And maybe on the other side of that ripple is other people. 

[click, static]

[beeps]

You are the stone

-.-- --- ..- / .- .-. . / - .... . / ... - --- -. .

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Okay, this sucks. 

[click, static]

Not talking about where I’ve been driving…it sucks. I want to talk about what I’m seeing, the landscapes, the funny town names, the strange roadside attractions. But I worry that if I do, I’ll easily give myself away and then…

Well, I’m not sure what I expect the worst case scenario to be, but I’m getting…paranoid again. A bit how I was when we first escaped. A bit how Harry always is. 

I did find something today that I don’t think would give away much, because I’m sure this isn’t the only one that exists but…it’s a tiny little church. Like, tiny tiny. Basically just an altar and enough room for a few people to stand. What on earth is this for? The world’s smallest parish? Private prayer? They’re certainly not filling the pews on Sunday, there aren’t any pews. 

It’s overgrown, like everything else, and it’s even more lovely because of it. Like it's not a house of worship for god, but for nature. As small as it can be so as not to intrude on the free landscape around it. 

I have very rarely thought about what my imaginary wedding would be like, mostly because, well, I never really thought I’d have one. Not only for the obvious reasons, the, you know, legal reasons, but because even if it was allowed, or we just wanted to do it for us, fuck whatever the law or the church says…I don’t know that I ever really thought I’d find someone for life. And then, when I did meet somebody who—

Well, there were other problems, weren’t there?

But if I were to have a wedding ceremony, even just for the hell of it, I certainly never would have picked a church. But I think I could see a wedding happening here. A tiny white chapel, surrounded by green, just big enough for the people you trust the most. Pocket-sized and private. 

It’s a silly thought. I doubt they ever had weddings at this chapel. Most people want a lot of people at their weddings, a big celebrations. This church couldn’t hold all of that. 

[click, static]

I just want to be able to share this with someone. For finding the other survivors to finally become easy. For there to be others to find. 

[click, static]

[beeps]

There are others. Some connected, some not.

- .... . .-. . / .- .-. . / --- - .... . .-. ... .-.-.- / ... --- -- . / -.-. --- -. -. . -.-. - . -.. --..-- / ... --- -- . / -. --- - .-.-.-

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

I feel a little bit like I can breath again, being back on the road. Even though I never slept in Leann’s house, I spent a lot of time in there, at all hours of the day, and it got…oppressive. Even after days of the windows being open, fresh cold air coming in, it still…

Well, I’m happy to be out of there. 

[click, static]

I think I can safely say that ghosts aren’t real. Or at least, Leann’s ghost was nowhere to be seen. I’m glad that her…spirit or whatever it might be isn’t stuck here, but it really doesn’t help me understand what the deal is with Este’s Park or the Denver photos. 

The Denver polaroids…I keep looking at them, trying to find more anomalies, trying to make out the finer features of the faces, but nothing reveals itself. They just start to look odder and odder the longer I look at them. Like everyone is…wearing a costume, or something. Like everything is just slightly off. 

They still don’t seem like ghosts. It feels more like…looking through a window, into somewhere else. Standing in the doorway of Dorothy’s home, all sepia-toned and shadowy, and looking out into the colorful world of Oz. Except I can’t step through. I’m just stuck inside. 

Maybe the camera is revealing something I can’t get to. Maybe…maybe I really am dead after all, behind some veil that makes me invisible to the living world. Maybe the man I saw in Estes Park wasn’t a ghost at all, but a living man, surprised to see me, a ghostly figure in his otherwise normal hotel room. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

I know I said I wasn’t listening anymore, but you’re the one who knew Leann existed in the first place so…not that I’m going to take your word for it, but:

If I understand what you’re telling me…Leann was just collateral damage of some bigger ripple. Which, yeah, thanks for stating the obvious. Clearly something bigger than all of us happened and we’re the suckers that got hit by the waves. So does that mean that everyone else…drowned?

Leann didn’t do anything, she’s not connected…and all I can think is that I am connected. Is that what you’re trying to say?

Not every ripple affects every pond in the world. Obviously, some things are big enough to destroy everything, the meteor killing the dinosaurs. But maybe…maybe it’s not about everyone being bowled over by a wave, but about certain people in a certain pond…not connected directly but swimming in the same soup…maybe those people are all here because of some rock that got thrown into that pond. 

Jesus, that makes no fucking sense. And even if it did make sense, it wouldn’t help me figure out what the fuck pond I’m in. 

[click, static]

I am heading out today. Getting away from North Dakota, leaving Leann in peace. I don’t think…I don’t think I’ll be telling you where I’m going. If anyone out there—any other survivors, real human beings who want to talk to other human beings—if any of you hear this, tell me where to meet you and I’ll drive to you. But I don’t think I’m going to be detailing my own movements, at least for a while. All of this…none of it feels right. I’m not taking any chances that aren’t necessary, not anymore. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

There’s nothing for me here. All I’m accomplishing by staying is intruding on Leann’s privacy and making myself lonelier. 

I don’t believe in the afterlife. Or, at least, I haven’t as a general rule. But Leann did. She believed in God, believed that dying was just an inevitable next step in a long journey. Toward the end, she welcomed death, even if she was beginning to have doubts about where she was ultimately headed. 

I think it’s unavoidable, in circumstances like ours. Thinking of hell, I mean. Whether you truly believe in it or not. I didn’t read all her final entries over the radio, it didn’t feel right when…well, I don’t know if it was a fever or if everything just finally got to her, but her last words didn’t make a whole lot of sense. I felt strange enough reading them, I wasn’t about to broadcast it. 

But it was obvious where she thought she was going next. And that makes me so…she didn’t deserve to go out thinking that. To die alone, so full of fear. No matter what kind of person she was. 

Not that there’s any evidence to suggest she was anything other than a good person. But she wondered this plenty, and I can’t help myself from wondering either—

What did she do? To find herself here, in this terrible hollow shell of a world. 

What did you do, Leann?

[click, static]

[beeps]

[click, static]

L did nothing. Not connected. Ripple big.

.-.. / -.. .. -.. / -. --- - .... .. -. --. .-.-.- / -. --- - / -.-. --- -. -. . -.-. - . -.. .-.-.- / .-. .. .--. .--. .-.. . / -... .. --. .-.-.-

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

“September 12th, 1974. I am not well. The last few years have been harder on my body than I ever expected, but I’ve made it through, against all odds. But it seems to finally be taking its toll. 

I do not know what it is that ails me, but I know it is serious. I am faint and weak, and though I have no appetite whatsoever, I do my best to feed myself. But it becomes harder and harder each day. Writing just these few sentences has already taken more energy than I can fathom, but I have to finish these thoughts before they flee my mind forever.  

I’m coming home, Harry. It is my deepest and last wish that I should see you again, but there is a secret fear inside of me that I won’t. I know where you are. You went into the arms of the Lord in Heaven above when you went to your eternal rest and it was always my plan and solemn vow that I would join you there one day. 

But what kind of loving God would do all of this to a devoted servant? Why would He leave me here without you, without our girls, without a friendly face in the world, if not to punish me for something I’ve done. I once thought that this was a test, a trial to show my strength and devotion to the Lord, but there is no glory in the death that stands in my  doorway now. I do not feel like a martyr upon the cross. More like a sinner cast onto coals. 

What have I done to deserve this hell? There’s a rattle in my lungs and a fog in my head most moments I am awake, but I think it is the loneliness that is killing me once and for all. I’m so sorry, my love, I tried to be strong for you, to be brave, but I cannot bear it any longer. 

If I have failed in my test, I am sorry for it. But I have to think that hell is full, and warm, and that that might be better than this place.

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

"February 2nd, 1974.  The winters are getting harder and harder. It isn’t so much that the storms are worse, but that there is so much more unpredictability to them. I know the weather patterns of my home like I know my own name, but I hadn’t fully appreciated just how reliant I’d become on the Farmer’s Almanac. 

There is also the matter of my age. I feel the cold so much more now, and long even more for the warm comfort of my dear Harry.  

Oh, Harry, what has happened to us? There are days when I curse your name for leaving me when you did, for condemning me to this life alone. For I was alone even before this purgatory I’m in now. Now, I can pretend that our girls are out there still, living off the land just as we taught them, and unable to contact me. I can imagine that they are happy. But when you died, I knew you were gone forever and that I would forever be alone in the world from then on. What is my life without you?

On days in which my head is clearer, I find myself thanking God that you went when you did. I can be selfish at times,  and I want you with me more than anything, but I am glad that you do not have to live with this uncertainty and fear. 

I’m tired, Harry. I want to see you again, my love.” 

[click, static] 

I don’t know—I don’t know why I read that one aloud. There’s nothing in it that—

I’m so sorry, Leann. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

“June 10th, 1972. The crop is looking better this year than ever. I believe I have this whole gardening process down pat now. I think I may need to expand my icebox this winter, as it’s looking like I’ll have too many vegetables to eat on my own. Between the produce I’ll be able to freeze and the game I expect to hunt this summer, I should be even better prepared for winter than I was last year. 

It is incredible how much there is to hunt now. It feels as if the deer are walking right up to my doorstep, offering themselves up to be eaten. There is no one else to scare them away. 

Once again, I find myself contemplating leaving North Dakota and seeking out other survivors. The radio has continued to yield no results. Neither have the regular trips I make to Bismarck. Nothing around me has changed except for the seasons and the unencumbered growth of the land beginning to overtake the roads. 

But I am no longer a young woman, and I feel that age in my bones more and more every day. What if I were to set out only to have an accident on the road, or run into bad weather or, worse, some danger that lurks out there that I can’t yet imagine? What if I find no trouble, but also no way to survive either? I’m afraid to leave my home for too long. It would only make sense to travel in the warmer months, and I can’t neglect my garden for too long. But then I look over the abundance I have and think that it is terribly selfish of me to have all of this to myself. Too many vegetables to eat and people out there who may have empty stomachs. 

I’ve decided, at least, to get the old signal fire going again. It was a right pain in the hiney to keep up those first few months, but now that every other part of my life is turning like a well-oiled wheel, I don’t think it will be too much of a burden to keep up. Perhaps this time someone will see it.”

[click, static]

So that’s how she was surviving—planting and hunting. She writes about some looting as well—that’s what she calls it, but I don’t think it’s looting if there’s no one to commit a crime against—but that’s mostly for supplies and equipment. So…just like us, it seems. It turns out she doesn’t just know how to do all this stuff because off her job, but also because of her father and her husband. It sounds like she and her husband both grew up living off the land. I found an old photo of what I think is Leann’s childhood home, and it looks like a one-room cabin. I doubt it had running water, let alone electricity. This house that she was living in probably felt like more luxury than she needed. I know what that feels like. 

And she was trying to contact people. I doubt a regular shortwave radio from North Dakota could have reached Pennsylvania, but then again my morse code friends seemed to have figured something out. If I had just put my foot down, insisted that we get a radio going…

There’s no point in wondering “what if”. But I still hate that she was out here, trying to reach out, while we were holed up in that stupid fucking house, blocking out the world. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

I—I found her diary. And it…well, it feels wrong, it is wrong to read it, but I’ve done a lot of wrong things to survive, and this feels like just another for the pile.

She didn’t write in it very often, at least not after 1969. There are some entries before the incident, just mundane life stuff that I didn’t do much more than skim. It isn’t relevant and I don’t want to violate her privacy more than I have to. 

So it’s best to focus on the entries from ’68 on. At first, it seems like she didn’t notice that something was wrong—it seems like her life was pretty isolated to begin with, spending most of her job outside, on her own, living alone and talking on the phone every two weeks with her daughters. 

Her husband—he’s been dead for a few years it looks like. Or, god, nearly a decade now, I guess. A few years when this whole thing started. His name—

(a dark laugh) You won’t believe this, but his name was Harry. Boy, was that a shock to the system when I read the words “Since Harry passed”. I felt like I was going to faint for a moment before I remembered where I was and what I was reading. I had to take a break for a while after that.  

I’ve had to take breaks a few times. Just reading about someone else’s life is…

I’ve flipped through the journal, and the last entry looks like it’s from a few months ago, with only a few entries each year the last few years. I guess that makes sense. I know I would have very little to write about if I had kept a journal the last five or so years. That first year, sure, but since then…well, not much happens. 

I guess that isn’t true for the last six months. A lot has happened, even if it doesn’t feel like it—I’m barely closer to finding anyone or understanding anything than I was when I started, but compared to the small, monotonous existence of Pennsylvania, my head spins when I think about everything I’ve done since I left. 

I have been keeping a journal of sorts, I guess, in these broadcasts.  I don’t even know who I’m talking to anymore, but you’re getting almost every thought, any substantial event that takes place. If that’s not a journal, what is?

But just like all these transmissions I’m making, I don’t expect Leann’s journal to hold many answers. If she’d known any more than what I did, surely she would’ve figured something out, would’ve left this place, would’ve—would’ve lived.  

Then again, maybe she knew exactly what happened and decided she was better off alone. I’ll just have to read and find out. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Can you hear that Birdie?

[the distant sound of fireworks]

Fireworks. They started about ten minutes ago and we’ve—well, we’ve even been able to see a few, just the ghost of them really. We couldn’t figure out why the hell fireworks of all things would be bleeding through and then we realized that it’s the fourth of July. Not only that but, as Harry pointed out, the bicentennial is next year. She figures people are probably kicking off a whole year of celebration today. 

One hundred and ninety nine years. That’s how long America has been a country. I can’t tell if that’s a long time or a short time. Two hundred doesn’t sound very long as the lifespan of a nation, but then when you think about everything America has done in that time…both the good and the bad…

I mean, it’s mostly bad, isn’t it? I’m certainly not a poster child for the establishment, but I think we can all agree that America really made quite the impression in the last two centuries, including killing a lot of people. Which…I guess that’s another case of throwing stones from a glass house. 

But also…my grandparents came here from Scotland, Harry’s came from Poland—everyone we know came from somewhere else. Living in New York was the best of this—all the different people you could meet, the different food you could eat, the languages you’d hear on the subway. 

The last time I saw fourth of July fireworks with Harry was…sixty five or six, I think. The whole crew went out to Jones Beach with a case of beer and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that Pete had thrown together for us. We’d just finished fencing the last item from a job a few months earlier and I think we were all feeling that sense of camaraderie particularly strongly. And I remember Pete saying “what a country we live in. A true haven for the crooked and criminal” and we all toasted to that. He was right. From the…Boston Tea Party to the wild west to us, what is America’s legacy but one of outlawry? Including fireworks! Maybe not in every state, but there’s something fitting about celebrating the country’s birthday by enjoying an illegal activity. 

All those memories now…thinking about Pete hadn’t really hurt like this even after Harry first told me but knowing the details now, being unable to create a more forgiving narrative in my head…

It just hurts to think about, that’s all. I—I loved him, in my own way and I thought he—and I like to think that Harry was paranoid, that there’s something about his old partner that we don’t know that made Pete do what he did and that he’d never have hurt me but he—

I think it’s just the realization that I didn’t really know him at all. And I knew that—I knew that he was a mystery to me, to everyone, but I thought I knew the way I didn’t know him, if that makes sense. I thought I knew the important things. I— 

[click, static]

Harry’s calling me over—apparently she found a new part of the sky that’s got some visible fireworks. 

I hope you’re seeing the sky light up wherever you are, Birdie. 

[click, static]

[beeps]

-.-- --- ..- / .... .- ...- . / --. ..- -. / - --- --- .-.-.- / .-. . -.-. . .. ...- . -.. .-.-.-

You have gun too. Received.

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

------

[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]
[a cacophony of beeps]
[click]

Okay, okay, I get it, just stop. 

[click, static, beeps]

(sighing) This isn’t—this isn’t helpful. Maybe you can’t hear what I’m hearing, but two messages are coming in at once and as a result, I can’t hear a goddamn thing. A fox yapping and a bird chirping at the same time and I’m the fool trying to make sense of both of them. 

If you truly care for me to understand what you’re trying to tell me, then you can figure something else out, something that’s not…this. Meanwhile, I’m going to be doing my own goddamn investigating. 

I’m going to figure out how Leann lived. Surviving on your own, especially all the way up here, out here, and especially at her age…its no easy feat. Maybe she really was just proficient in survival because of her job, maybe that was enough, or maybe she wasn’t totally alone the whole time. Maybe the husband in the photos…maybe he was with her and died years ago. Maybe her daughters are still out there and have been gone from home for one reason or another. Maybe she had people to help her, people to rely on, people to…goddamn pass the time with. 

If she did, I’m going to find them. Even they are—even if they did eventually…

It matters that she’s dead. Of course it matters. I really, really wish that she wasn’t. But, dead or alive, she’s here. And that’s what matters. She’s existed in this strange after-world, right alongside Harry and I, without any of us realizing it. And as far as I can tell, the three of us have nothing in common beyond being women who are decently self-sufficient. Leann was born here, in North Dakota, and doesn’t seem to have traveled more than a few hundred miles from this general area her entire life. I don’t have an exhaustive list of every place that Harry has ever visited, but I’m pretty sure she’s never been out this way. So none of us crossed paths. 

Harry and I were criminals, and Leann worked for the government…but for the Bureau of Land Management. That’s hardly—I mean, it’s not the FBI, it isn’t like our paths would’ve crossed once Harry and I got arrested. And maybe it’s not important that we would’ve crossed paths or not, maybe it’s…maybe it’s some kind of weird gene we all share or something, something intrinsic in each of us that’s caused us to survive when everyone else…

What, evaporated? Leann’s body is the first that I’ve seen. If we were all immune to something, we’d see everybody who wasn’t. 

I have…I have no theories. After the thing with the tornado siren, I started to think again that maybe…maybe it’s not that everyone else is gone, maybe it’s that we’re somewhere else. That maybe that dark feeling I have sometimes about this being purgatory or hell is right. It’s what I deserve, and for years I didn’t understand what Harry would’ve done to earn the same punishment but then she—

[click, static]

I don’t know what Leann could have possibly done to land herself here.  And if it is some sort of cosmic punishment, well…where the fuck is everyone else? There are things that I’ve done that I’m not proud of, that I carry a hell of a lot of guilt and shame about actually, but I know there are worse people than me. Is this a perfectly calibrated hell for people who have done something bad but not that bad? Maybe Leann was a shitty mom, or was stealing money from her job, or…who knows. But if she had done something like that, then her and Harry being in the same place…sure, I can see that. 

But I don’t belong with them. What I did was so much worse, objectively.  I know that. I don’t pretend like it was right or noble or anything like that. Necessary, maybe,  or at least I thought so at the time—

[click, static]

I just don’t get it. I don’t understand how we’re connected. And maybe I’m looking for a connection where I’ll never find one, maybe it’s just weird fucking coincidence but that doesn’t feel…right. If only three of us made it past 1968, there must be a reason. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

I…I’ve thought about staying here longer. About starting to sleep in the house to see if I can see any ghosts. Because why not right? I’ve seen plenty of things by this point that would suggest that as a possibility. Maybe the ghost in Estes’ Park was the ghost of someone who’s body was in one of the hotel rooms—it’s not like I checked every single one. Maybe if I hung around, I’d see Leann too. 

But what would be the point? She wouldn’t know what the hell was going on, and I don’t think I could talk to her. It would just be another person out of my reach. And sure, maybe I would confirm for good that ghosts are real, but what would that tell me, really? Other than reemphasizing what I already know, which is that I’m way in over my head. It wouldn’t help me, to know that. And I’m…I think I’ve learned enough this week. I’m not sure I want to know more. 

I know the important things. That I don’t know shit and that I’m alone. 

[click, static]

[a cacophony of beeps]

-. --- - / .- .-.. --- -. . / .-.. . .- -. -. / .-. .- -. -.. --- -- / -... ..- - / -.-. --- -. -. . -.-. - . -..

.... . .- -.. / . .- ... -

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

(on the verge of tears, softly) 

Harry? Harry can you hear me?

[click, static]

Please, Harry, I need—if you can hear this, just please get on the radio and talk to me. I don’t care what you say, I just need—

[click, static]

What are we going to do, Harry? What are we going to become if we stay like this? I have all the time in the world to seek answers but that just means I have all the time in the world to never find them. Life is so long, this woman—she lived to be sixty in this world and we—

[click, static]

I can’t keep doing this. Another two, three decades like this? Only to die one day, never to be found, decaying in the open air while the rest of the world continues not to move around us. 

I think I’m going insane. We would joke about that, you and I, do you remember?  We’d have our “sanity days” where we’d do something that reminded us that we were real, and that time was marching forward, even if it didn’t feel like it. We’d tell each other a story the other had never heard, or run around outside like kids, or see who could eat one of your scones the fastest. Small stuff, dumb stuff.
 
[click, static]

Do you think Leann had anything like that? She must have been so lonely. 

[click, static]

We’re responsible for that Harry. You and me. We could’ve helped this woman not be lonely but instead we stayed in that stupid house and—

[click, static]

Please. Please just get on your radio and tell me I’m real. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

------

[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Leann Smith. That was the woman’s name. I, um…I don’t know what the ethics are of nosing through someone’s home when they’re lying dead in the other room, but no one’s here to tell me not to. And I wanted to—I guess I wanted to know something about her. I wanted to know if there was some…connection, I guess. 

Because that would…it would lend some kind of sense to all of this, right? Harry and I both being alive still—that makes sense. We were together when whatever happened happened and we were intentionally hiding from the world at the time. If something, you know, swept through civilization, we were isolated from it. 

Mrs. Smith, here, well she was isolated too, I guess. She lived all the way out here, in the middle of nowhere, by herself. At least I think she lived by herself. I found a stack of old mail that I guess she must have kept this whole time for…sentimental reasons? I get that, I think I would’ve done the same if I’d be living at my own address. And the mail was only ever addressed to her. If someone else lived here, there’s no evidence of them, and a woman who kept mail from six years ago would’ve almost certainly kept traces of whoever she lived with. 

But there are—well, there are photos. Photos of her with a man—her husband maybe—and then, eventually, with kids. The most recent photo, based on her age in it—she’s got her arms around two women in their…late twenties I’d guess? Younger than me. Or, at least, younger than I am now, though I guess probably not the year this photo was taken. 

Leann herself is—was—sixty-one. I found her driver’s license and her work badge. She worked for the Bureau of Land Management. Probably how she survived this long on her own, she must have picked up some useful skills in that job. 

She had an interesting job, a husband at some point, and two daughters, if I’m interpreting all the photos correctly. Granddaughters I think, or something like it, based off a letter she got, a woman writing about her beautiful daughter Grace, turning one soon, would Leann come visit? She lived a full life—fuller than mine in a lot of respects. Sure, I’ve had excitement and variety but never…

She really does look peaceful now. I thought—well, I thought about burying her, giving her a proper rest, but…I don’t want to move her. Not when she seems to be resting just fine already. I wish I knew anything about what she believed in, I would’ve liked to…I don’t know, pray or say words or sing, no matter how tone deaf. Something to show that she’s—that someone was here, someone knows she’s gone. Someone will remember her. 

I thought maybe I might find a will with the funeral arrangements she’d wanted but all her safe had was a gun, which…that was a bit surprising, um, and what looks like an old engagement ring, and a stack of cash. None of which is particularly useful to me now. 

At least I got to break a lock more intricate than one on the front door of a house. It wasn't a very good safe, but it kept me occupied for nearly a minute. That’s something. 

I— I’m not really sure what I’m going on about. I feel…I feel very far away from my body right now. Like I’ve been watching someone else walk casually through the house and open cabinets and rifle through papers. Like that can’t possibly be me, because surely I’m somewhere having a breakdown over the last few days. 

(a slightly manic laugh) But nope! It’s me, I’m the one who has suddenly gotten very comfortable occupying the same space as a dead body. Isn’t it amazing how quickly human beings can adapt to something? I feel like that’s all I’ve done the last six years—actually, I feel like that’s all I’ve done my whole life—adapt, adapt, adapt. The great adapter, that’s me. 

Why wouldn’t I adapt to this new reality that other people did survive but that I don’t get to talk to them? It’s just another piece of information. And information is neutral, easy to digest. And all I’ve done today is gather more and more information and while none of it has proven to be particularly useful…well, I have it now. And that’s something, right? It’s got to be something. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

You didn’t know? I’m assuming you’re not saying you didn’t know they’d be here, because there sure as hell wasn’t anything else noteworthy at these coordinates. You sent me there to find them, that’s the only thing that makes sense. 

So, in that case, are you saying that you didn’t know they’d be dead? 

I guess…I guess I can believe that. I’m not sure I do, because I don’t believe anything you say to me, but I could believe that. After all, I haven’t had any direct contact with Harry in six months—though I guess she tried to reach out to me a few months after I last saw her in person. But for all I know, I could drive back to Pennsylvania right now and find that she’s—
 
[click, static]

No, I can’t think like that. I can’t—maybe I should go back. Just to…check. 

[click, static]

She said I would never make it a year. That I’d be back once I’d gotten sick of driving, once the loneliness had driven me sufficiently insane. That that would happen even faster if I didn’t find something to take care of. 

[click, static]

I can’t go back. Not just because she—

I need to sort all o this shit out. I’m not listening to any fucking cryptic morse code messages anymore, but you need to tell me what the hell you’re playing at with this. What you were hoping to accomplish by having me meet this person. 

And you need to tell me if there’s anyone else. You give me more coordinates and I’ll listen to those. But that’s it. Unless you do a hell of a good job explaining this whole situation that you’ve dropped me in. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

------

[TRANSCRIPT]

[content warning: reference to vomiting, dead bodies]

[click, static]

“Call me Fox”. That’s all you have to say for yourself? After what you just—

[click, static]

I’m not going to call you anything. I don’t know what—or who—

Do you know Birdie? You must, right? Birdie and Fox, both communicating only through morse code…who the hell are you people? What did you do to that—

[click, static]

(a dark laugh) Well, now I know. Now I know that there are other people in the world. Or, were. There have been, this whole time. If I had to guess, I’d say that that woman had been dead for…a few months maybe? If I had just—

[click, static]

Why would you do this? Why would you send me to find a stranger’s corpse? 

[click, static] 

I…I slept in my car last night. Which isn’t exactly new for me, but it felt different, knowing that I was parked outside a perfectly good house with a perfectly good guest room—I’ve slept in plenty of strangers’ homes, in plenty of guest rooms and master bedrooms and children’s rooms and all of them—all of them—have been empty. 

For the past six months—hell, for the past six years, I have dreamt about finding a house that isn’t empty. I’ve imagined what it would be like, not just to sleep in a guest room, but to be someone’s guest. 

I cannot be a guest in that house. You can’t be guest when the host is lying in their own bed, eyes shut like they’re—

[click, static]

I got sick. In the house, yesterday, about fifteen minutes before I tried to contact you. I, um, I threw up right on their bedroom carpet. I—I cleaned it up eventually. I don’t know, it felt like the right thing to do, like, polite, you know even if the whole house already smelled like—

[click, static] 

I’ve seen a dead body before. It isn't that. I watched both my parents die, I saw a really terrible motorcycle accident on the highway once. But those were…for lack of a better term, they were, um, fresh. Which is its own kind of horror, but what’s in there, what’s in that house, the decay of it. The…the loneliness. 

[click, static]

I don’t want to be found like that. I don’t want to find Harry like that. But if we both—I mean, is there anyone left to do the finding? There—I still can’t get over the fact that someone was here. Not a person from six years ago with a body that somehow stuck around, but someone who has been here, who died, it seems, peacefully in their sleep sometime in the last year. I don’t know anything about what happens to a body after it dies, but I know that the body inside that house has not been lying there for six years. 

Why? Why did you do this? Do you have any idea just how cruel it is? To show me that someone was here all along, and that I’m too late?

[click, static]

[beeps]

-.. .. -.. -. - / -.- -. --- .--

didn't know

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

------

[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Who—

[click, static]

Who are you? I’m not asking anymore, who—

[click, static]

I don’t know what—what the fuck you’re playing at but…

It’s not you. What—who I f—

[click, static]

It can’t be you. You can’t have transmitted something to me just last week, not when—

[click, static]

But you knew. You knew what I would find. Why—how—

[click, static]

Why would you send me here? 

[click, static]

Who are you?

[click, static]

[beeps]

-.-. .- .-.. .-.. / -- . / ..-. --- -..-

Call me Fox

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]
I swear to god, I really am going to lose it. Really, really lose it. 

There’s nothing here. Not only are you not here, but there’s literally…nothing. It’s an open field. 

I’ve double, triple, quadruple-checked the coordinates and I’m pretty positive I have it right, so…

I mean, I guess it’s a general area. I’m not particularly used to reading longitude and latitude, so I’m only…ninety-five percent certain I have the right idea about how wide of an area it is. So it’s not like my search is over but…

The whole area is flat and empty. As I’ve discovered, a lot of America is flat and empty. What am I looking for? If it’s signs of human life, I haven’t found it. 

I guess…thinking about how Harry and I have lived…it’s pretty rural, pretty empty and hard to find. Which was the point. So maybe you were thinking the same thing. Maybe you’ve got a farm somewhere. Living off the land, far away from any civilization…and I just can’t see it yet, it’s just past the horizon. But I’ll check every house, every barn, every broken down car I see. Once I see any of those things. 

If—if you are hearing this, just…step outside and start shouting. Wave a flag, flash a light into the sky, anything. I’m pretty sure I can hear and see for miles out here. 

And I’m so close. I can taste it, we’re so close. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

They’re coordinates. That’s—they’re coordinates! 

I think. 

46 degrees 40 minutes North and 100 degrees 52 minutes West. At least, that’s what I’m assuming. Any other combination of North, South, East, West puts me into the ocean or…Mongolia, so I’m just going to go with my gut here. 

It’s North Dakota. I would guess maybe a ten hour drive—I’m already on the road and driving fast. Maybe I’m completely wrong and you’re yelling at your radio begging me to pull over and look at the numbers again and understand something but I…

Maybe I want them to be coordinates. I want you to be real—to be someone other than Birdie and to be telling me where to find you. I haven’t been to North Dakota yet, there’s still a chance that people are out there, that you want me to find them. To find you. 

(laughs) I don’t know what—what am I gonna say to you? Would it—would it be strange to give you a hug? I’m not even that affectionate of a person but it’s been so long since—

[click, static]

Who is the last person that you hugged? Is it someone that you’re with? Are you with people? Looking through the messages I’ve received, I think you started to talk to me around my birthday. If I had to guess. Which means that you’re the one who told me the tornado system wasn’t automated, which makes sense, maybe Birdie didn’t know that either. 

It also means that you’re the person who told me I didn’t belong. But I’m choosing to see that as a…problem with tone. You can only convey so much meaning with dots and dashes and maybe you were trying to tell me I didn’t belong on the West Coast because you’d been hoping I would go North instead of West. I don’t belong where there are no people and you know that—you know I’ve been searching. Maybe you were trying to say I belong wherever you are. 

I’d like to hug you for that. For telling me the truth about things, about the warning siren, for giving me something to look for. Maybe you’re affectionate with someone every single day but me—

Well, Harry was the last person I hugged. Obviously. Six years with someone, it’s bound to happen. But that was a few years ago now. She—maybe she is a physically affectionate person naturally but we rarely—

I’d had a nightmare. I get them sometimes, as you know. Or, maybe you don’t know, I don’t know how long you’ve been listening. Maybe everything I said before getting to Vegas was lost to you. Surely you would’ve told me about the warning system before then if you had heard me. 

But, well, anyway, I get nightmares sometimes. About…well, it’s not important, but Harry—no matter what she felt about the situation that led to the nightmares, she never judged me too harshly for having them. And a while back, I—I think I woke up screaming. It was a bad one, it felt so real, and she came rushing in, thinking that something was really wrong and then she—-

Human comfort can mean a lot even when it’s given by someone that—that you—someone who doesn’t—

Well, our relationship has always been about as clear as mud, but she comforted me then. Held me until I stopped shaking. And that wasn’t the first time she’d done something like that, but it was the last. 

But then again, sometimes, when she cut my hair, she’d…well, I thought…

She lingered. Her fingers in my hair, on my neck. Touching longer and more tenderly than they had to. 

[click, static] 

Just…when I get there, whoever you are…you can hug me. I give you full permission. 

And whoever you are, just…stay there. I’m coming as fast as I can. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

I am…losing my mind. I cannot for the life of me figure out what this means. 

Together, it’s 464,010,052…or, I mean, I guess if it’s together, it could be a phone number, though I have no idea if 464 is an area code anywhere…certainly not to my knowledge. 

Besides, I do think they’re separate numbers. Which brings me to 4,640 and 10,052…or they’re not values at all. 10052 does look like a zip code and a New York one at that—100 is Manhattan, but, unless I’m seriously misremembering something, there is no 1005. And what would the other number be? An address maybe, 46 40th Street…no East or West but both of them would be Midtown. Or, in the outer boroughs, I guess. 

Some kind of code? It’s not any morse code shorthand I know, like CQ or SOS…numbers aren’t really used for that kind of stuff. It could be a book code…page 46, 40th word; page 100, 52nd word but what book would it be? 

I wish Harry was here. All those random bits of trivia she has stored in her head, her love of puzzles…she’d be able to see a pattern that I’m not seeing. 

…But then she’d probably figure it out and also figure out a reason why we shouldn't trust it or follow it or whatever it is you want us to do with it. 

Me. Want me to do with it. Not us. Because she’s not here. Because she didn’t trust me enough to come with me, didn’t trust me to keep her safe, didn’t trust that this journey would be worth taking. 

And maybe it’s not. Maybe I’m the one who’s crazy for trusting that a totally new stranger who didn’t even bother to say hello or introduce themselves is worth deciphering a message from but…if I die, I die. There’s only so much uncertainty and loneliness a person can take before they’ll accept any risk. 

I could really use a hand here. If you’re trying to tell me something, I’m not gonna get it on my own. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

“Letter date?” - that was your last message. As in…the date on the letter? It’s April 6th, 1975. What’s important about that?

Four, six, one, nine, seven, five. Our first thought was coordinates, of course, and it’s the right amount of numbers to be a latitude, but seventy-five isn’t a valid number for the seconds. So maybe it’s just the degrees and minutes and you’ll send the seconds through later? Or it could just be the degrees and you want us to leave out the year entirely. If it is a latitude, we’re not that far from it. We would just need the longitude, obviously.

We’re getting somewhere, I think, so let me know if this is entirely the wrong track. Otherwise, we’ll keep working away at it. 

[click, static]
[beeps]

-.. --- -. .-..-. - / ... .- -.-- / .- .-.. --- ..- -.. 

Don’t say aloud

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Breaker, breaker, this is Whiskey calling out for—

[click, static]

Well, I’m not sure, actually. I thought…I thought Birdie had started transmitting again and even though things sounded a little different to me, I didn’t think much of it, thought maybe the signal was just getting weaker, except…

Birdie has never sent me numbers before. Let alone a string of them without any other information. And listening to them over and over again, trying to understand what they mean…it’s hard to deny that something is different. I thought I’d just gotten so good at translating morse, but you—whoever you are—you’re transmitting slower. I’m sure of it now. 

Which begs the question…how long have you been transmitting? When was the first time I noticed things sounding a little different? When is the last time Birdie sent me something? I have all the messages written down, so I’ll go back through and see if I can pinpoint…

Okay. But first: 4640 10052—those were the numbers you sent through. And I’m damned if I have any idea what it means. It’s not a phone number, or a zip code…it might not even be two separate numbers, though there was a significant gap between them.  

Math has never been my strong suit. So if you want to give me a hint, mysterious stranger…

[click, static]

God, you really are a stranger, aren’t you? There’s someone else out there. 

I—I can’t believe it. 

If this is Birdie and you’ve just changed the style of your transmissions, please tell me? I can’t bear to get my hopes up. 

[click, static]

And if this is Harry messing around somehow, I will come back to Pennsylvania and destroy all your paintings. 

Whiskey out. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

I found the tornado warning system. The one that I’m pretty sure I heard, based on its location. And it’s…

Well, you were right. It has to be triggered manually. But not only is no one here or anywhere nearby, not only is there no sign that anyone has been here, in this room, this county, this state, beside me, but…

It’s broken. The siren, it’s broken. It doesn’t work. It looks like it’s been broken for a while.

I’m going to drive around and check as many systems as I can but…

What the fuck.

[click, static]

[beeps]

....- -.... ....- ----- / .---- ----- ----- ..... ..---

4640 10052

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Breaker, breaker, this is Whiskey, fruitlessly searching for the grail. 

I found what I’m pretty sure is the spot I pulled over to when I heard the siren and I’ve gone north, east, and west, with absolutely nothing to show for it. The flat, empty and open nature of driving through Kansas was bad enough when I was doing it for the first time, now that I’m back in places I’ve already been, I feel unbelievably trapped. No matter what direction I go, I feel like I’m driving in circles. 

The only direction left to go is south. And then…if I can’t find anything in that direction, I guess I’ll try every direction again, just with a larger radius. 

The problem is that I don’t even know what I’m looking for. I’ve been checking government buildings and anything that looks remotely related to the government or the military—I’ve even been checking schools. And…nothing. 

Quests really aren’t what they seem like in fantasy novels, are they? I'm glad I don’t have monsters to fight, but I wouldn’t say no to some degree of eventfulness. Anything to shake up the tedium of driving, driving, driving. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

No dog. I didn’t really expect to find one. And I told myself I wouldn’t get my hopes up and yet I’m still disappointed. 

That’s just the way it goes, isn’t it? Disappointment finds you no matter how much you try to protect your heart. I never really believed that I’d find the dog again—at this point, I’m not sure I believe I even saw it—and I never really believed that if I did, it would lead me to answers, the truth, people. And yet, here I am, let down. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about the dog, about what I said after I’d seen it. That I wanted to be taken care of like that dog. That I was jealous of it. And the more I think about it, the more I’ve reflected on the last six years, on what they were like, on what they weren’t and on what I know now that I didn’t know for most of those years…

Were you keeping me like a loyal dog, Harry? Giving me just enough affection and positive reinforcement to keep me from biting your hand? Making sure that my kennel was comfortable so that I didn’t try to leave it, but never giving me too much because, after all, I’m just something to share space with, to bark at the door when there’s danger. 

It isn’t even like I was some kind of lapdog, a pet that got nothing but love and gave nothing in return, but there’s an…obedience, that you brought out in me that I hate. Even in all our disagreements, in all my frustrations with you, I still always listened to you. 

Because there was always hope. There was always the possibility of something and I know you said that you never could—

[click, static]

You knew. You knew that possibility was keeping me at heel. And I’ve been so useful to you. Let’s be honest with ourselves, Harry, for once—you would have died years ago without me. Sure, you’re sufficient now, I don’t think I could have left if—

[click, static]

You’ve learned. You’ve become more capable over the years. But at first? I did everything. I kept us alive. I kept us safe. I got us out of that prison transport in the first place. And you knew that you needed me. So you took care of me in turn, just enough to make sure I’d stick by you. Even when you also knew that you’d already—

[click, static]

I’m not jealous of the dog. I’m jealous of my past self. Of her naiveté. Of the hope she felt. Now I’m left living in the perpetual disappointment. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Breaker, breaker, this is Whiskey driving East. 

So Colorado was a bust. Kind of. The polaroids are something, even if I don’t know what they are yet, but I definitely didn’t have some kind of dramatic confrontation—collision—while I was in Denver. I didn’t even get any idea of what that would look like. 

On to Kansas then. Back to Kansas. To chase a tornado or, at least, the warning of one. 

I don’t know a lot about tornados or their emergency systems—obviously—so I don’t have the most concrete plan. I figure…well, I marked on my atlas where I saw the dog, so I’m going to start there. Maybe now that I’ve been gone for a while, the dog has taken to wandering the highway again and I’ll get lucky. 

From there, I have a general idea of where I first heard the siren. My best guess would be that the sirens can’t be heard from more than a few miles away, so I’ll do what I did in West Virginia and triangulate the epicenter as best as I can. Except, unless the siren is currently going when I get there, I’m going to be guessing on which direction the siren was coming from, so it might take me a bit longer. 

Then again, I have time. I may have wasted the last six years—maybe if I’d set out a few months after we found the house like I’d wanted to, we’d have a whole community of people already. It doesn’t matter now. You can make the choice to change your life when you make it and not a moment before. And all you have to do is hope you do it in time for you to live a bit of the life you want, instead of the getting of that life being the last thing you do before you die. 

Well, I’m not near to death. I feel like I have something to do for the first time in a long time—maybe ever—and I’m done wasting time. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

I thought getting some sleep and getting out of the city might help me clear my head, that I’d wake up and have a cup of coffee and look at the photos I took and they’d be…normal. 

They’re not. They’re exactly as they were when I last looked at them, which is to say…not normal.  Those people—those ghosts—are still there and I’ve spent nearly an hour looking at all of them as closely as I possibly can, trying to find any kind of clue as to what they are. None of the faces—as much as I can see them—are familiar, but I guess that’s not a surprise. I’ve never been to Colorado. 

But the thing that—I mean, it’s better this way, but the thing that has me truly scratching my head is…well, now that I have these polaroids, some part of me expected to look closely and find all the peoples’ eyes wide in terror, their mouths open in a scream. If this is some kind of…remnant of whatever happened here, shouldn’t there be a trace of terror?

But no, they’re just normal people dressed normally, going about their normal days. They don’t look distressed or shocked or like anything unusual is happening to them at all. 

There is one weird thing. Weird-er thing, I guess, beyond the very fact of the figures. One of them—a polaroid I took of a park—has a man really close to the camera. He’s in profile, like he’s walked into frame as I took the photo, and he’s scratching his forehead or adjusting his glasses or something. The relevant bit is that his hand is up and the watch on his wrist is facing the camera. I first was checking the time to see if it matched the time I took the photo and then, of course, I couldn’t remember when I took the photo, so that ended up not being helpful at all, but the watch itself…

Well, I may have never been the hippest or most fashion forward person in the world, but I’ve always worn a watch, like most people. And I have never seen a watch like this—it didn’t have any hands, instead it was like a flip clock, where it’s just the numbers of the hour and minutes. But the strangest of all is that the numbers looked lit up. Almost like they were on a TV screen. 

As I’m saying it, it sounds like nothing. I know, I can here it. But it’s something that’s out of place. And anything that’s out of place is worth noting. 

Even if I have no idea what it means. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

I took a look at the polaroids I got yesterday and there are…

[click, static]

It doesn’t make any sense but there are people in them. 

Not—not fully, not completely. Not as if they were standing there in front of me, some kind of reverse vampire that can only be seen in photos. 

Though, that’s mirrors, isn’t it? Vampires can’t see their reflection. It doesn’t matter—

[click, static]

It’s like the nuclear shadow thing I was talking about except, they aren’t shadows. They—they’re both more and less distinct than that. Not stark and clearly visible silhouettes, but with more…dimension. More detail. I feel like I can see a real face in one or two of them. 

[click, static]

How is that…how is it possible? What are they? Is this what Birdie was talking about?

Am I in a city of ghosts?

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Breaker Channel 19, this is WAR1974 in Denver, CO. 

[click, static] 

Breaker, breaker, does anyone read?

[click, static]

(sigh) Yeah. Figures.

I’ve combed every inch of this city, I’m sure of it. Driven every highway and side street, gone into any building that seemed to have electricity, even climbed to the roof of one of the taller buildings and looked over the whole goddamned place and there’s…

There’s nothing. Lights and sounds, yes, but the lights are unreliable and the sounds don’t seem to be coming from anywhere. I feel like a crazy person, darting back and forth across the city, chasing phantoms. 

I’ve taken a bunch of photos throughout the day. I don’t know why. I guess because I can now, and because…

It doesn’t make any sense. This has to mean something. Whether it means that I can’t see whatever it is that makes this place worth avoiding, or it means that Birdie wanted to keep me out of here and was lying about it being dangerous…there’s something here that I’m not getting. 

And meanwhile, the CB stays quiet. No morse, no old radio broadcasts, nothing at all. If you are somewhere in this city, Birdie, you may have gotten what you wanted. I’m not sure I can find you. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]
 
There’s…there’s music. I don’t—I don’t know where it’s coming from but it’s—it sounds—

[click, static]

I took my time to actually drive into the city—so much time it was dark by the time I was done circling the place. I just wanted to be careful, you know? And the darkness actually sort of helped in some ways—it made it easy to see that the city has a lot of electricity—almost as much as Vegas, which is weird, because it’s not like this is the kind of hot destination Vegas was. 

But maybe that’s what you meant by “collision point”—that there’s more power here for some reason. But despite the flickering lights, I didn’t see any movement or anything that looked remotely dangerous so I figured it was safe to drive into the city, even if it is getting late. 

But the further I got in, the more…sound there was. I even turned off the CB for a bit and rolled down my windows to listen—it’s not like I was receiving any transmissions anyway. 

And there were sounds of…cars. Not…consistent, not like the sound of a busy road or a highway in the distance, but the occasional far away honk, the pop of a backfire, the screech of a skid. I tried to follow the sounds, find whatever was making them but there hasn’t been anything and then…the music. 

It stopped a few minutes ago. And it was almost like there was—well, if I didn’t know better, I would say that there was the murmur of a crowd. Applause and then…

I don’t know, I’m clearly hearing things. I followed the sound as best I could and it actually seemed like it was coming from one place. And when I got close, I could hear—singing, actual singing, not from a record but—

I didn’t recognize the song, but it was something about a “green-eyed lady”, those were the only lyrics I was able to pick up on. And then the song ended and there was that rumble like an audience and then…nothing. 

I’ve run up and down this street half a dozen times looking for any sign of a record player or electricity or anything at all that would explain why it sounded like there was a concert here a moment ago but—

But there’s nothing here. Well, that’s not true—there’s a half finished building. A skyscraper, actually—maybe not by New York standards, but certainly compared to the rest of the buildings—still covered in scaffolding, a crane on top of it. Not exactly a concert hall. 

Maybe I am truly losing my mind.
Maybe I just need some sleep. 

[click, static]

Harry has green eyes. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Tire chains. All that preparation, packing the car with everything I could possibly need for any contingency, and I forgot snow chains. The West is strange. Just this morning I left the beautifully alien desert-like world of Utah and four hours later, hit a snowstorm in Colorado. 

The snow is beautiful too—a different kind of beauty from Zion, but beautiful all the same. It keeps knocking me over, the grandeur of this land, the…breathtaking splendor of it. 

And what did we do with it? We preserved some of it, sure, but at what cost? It’s hard to look at all these places and not see what it cost us. It’s hard to look at perfect white snow blanketing the world and not see the red that stains it all. 

I don’t know, maybe I’m just feeling maudlin. It’s this feeling of dread inside me—not the feeling that I had in Estes Park, this dread is all mine. But I’m dreading going to Denver tomorrow and finding out that Birdie was right, and that it’s too dangerous and I’m woefully unprepared. I’m dreading going to Kansas afterward and finding nothing and no one at all. 

I’m so goddamn lonely. Not the normal kind of lonely either, the kind of lonely I’ve been most of my life. I mean, god, I’ve been lonely a lot these last six years sharing one house with another person and…

I miss people. I don’t know why it took me so long, but I really miss people. It isn’t abstract anymore, the way it was when we were holed up in Pennsylvania—now I see it every day, how empty this place is, how beautiful but empty. How I’m the only one around to appreciate it. And that’s wrong. I don’t know that we’ve ever had it right, but I know this isn’t right either. 

We drove out so many people, killed so many people—people we thought were different from us and people we probably considered family—just so we could take everything the land was worth and then put up a sign saying it was protected now, and you have to move through it by our rules. 

And yet, still, I goddamn miss people. In all their messy flawed selves. And this—where we are now, where I am now—it must have cost us something so much worse than anything before. I’m just not sure why I’m paying the price for it. 

Or maybe I’m the one that got off easy. 

[click, static]

Anyway, I got tire chains. Picked up a polaroid camera too, finally—I’m going to stay the night in whatever this city is that I’m in and hope the storm lets up by morning. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Harry’s letter…what about Harry’s letter? Are you asking if we’ve talked about it? Or…what? 

As it so happens, we haven’t talked about it. It’s not really relevant anymore, is it? She doesn’t need to know that I was worried sick that she’d been killed and I don’t need to bring up the fact that she secretly likes Hank Williams. She hasn’t mentioned my Rothko lie so…we’re even. 

It’s not like the letter was really all that revealing anyway. It was mostly…logistical. And yeah, it was clever of her to sew it into the jacket, but honestly, I’m kind of pissed that she wore the jacket to butcher chickens. And butcher them badly. God forbid she gets any of her clothes dirty. 

I still have it. Not that it’s very wearable anymore but. I don’t know. I had to abandon the house I’ve lived in for six years and the car that took me back and forth across the country, so I don’t have a lot of things worth sentimental value. 

If we were going to talk about any kind of correspondence…well, you think she’d have some specific things to say about what I’ve said on here over the last year. Both the good and the bad. And the…vulnerable. 

Anyway, I don’t understand why you’re asking about Harry’s letter. Is there some kind of…information she shared that you think would be useful? I don’t think it’s very smart of us to revisit any of the old potential meetup spots and you’re sending us West anyway so…again, a little more clarity please. 

[click, static]

[beeps]

.-.. . - - . .-. / -.. .- - . ..--..

Letter date?

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Breaker, breaker, this is Whiskey, calling out from Zion National Park. I found an old guidebook to the country’s parks a while back—and some history books too, figured I’d finally give myself that higher education I never got—and while I haven’t exactly shaped my trip around the thing, I like to take a gander every now and then and figure out if there’s anything off my route worth taking a detour for. And while I might be on more of a mission than I have been up to this point, I still  think this detour was worth it. 

It’s as stunning as the book says it is. And I’d heard about it of course, it’s probably one of the more famous parks, but I’m not sure I had any idea what it was supposed to look like. Not that knowing would have prepared me at all. 

It’s enormous and colorful and…overwhelming. That’s the only word I seem to have. Like so much of the land out here—the grand canyon, the pacific coast—it feels like the land of giants. Like I’ve been shrunk down and need to be careful where I tread, in case I step into the shadow of a canyon and become invisible to the giant stomping around above me, ready to be crushed under its foot. 

Zion means something, I think, to people, but hell if I know what that is. Aside from the occasional holiday or, I don’t know, food, Harry and I never talked much about religion. But it is a religious word, I’m pretty sure. Or a political one? I remember it being in the papers a few years before everything went all wonky. I never spent that much time on the news beyond who was running for President and lord knows I haven’t thought about any of that stuff in years. There’s no more news now that there are no more people.

I wish I’d paid more attention. 

But anyway, I guess it meant something to the Mormons, because that’s where the park got its name. Or, something like that, the guidebook doesn’t go into detail beyond saying that it used to be called the Mukuntunweap National Monument, which is a Paiute word—and I’m probably butchering both of those pronunciations. But they changed it because it was too hard for people to spell and because the Mormons looked at the land and saw some kind of holy temple, I guess. 

I’m not sure what to make of any of that, if I’m honest. Other than to say that I sort of get what the Mormons were feeling about this place—it is so beautiful, I think I would see God in it if I believed that He existed. And I’m glad that people thought to preserve it, make it a park; I’m glad we didn’t stick a highway through it or tear down the trees to build a suburb but at the same time…

Well, was it holy to the Paiute people too? Did we drive them out before declaring this place ours and worth protecting? That sounds like something we’d do. Were the Paiute the ones that named it Mukuntunweap in the first place or did we do that after we took it from them? I doubt they found that word hard to spell, so why is it that the name had to change? Who gets to make these decisions? And why?

I keep thinking about what you said. That I don’t belong. And maybe I don’t. Maybe I don’t belong in Los Angeles, maybe I don’t belong in Pennsylvania or New York or America or anywhere. I’ve talked about my fairly itinerant life and what it means to build a home and maybe home where you hang your hat or maybe it’s the people you belong to. I belonged to my parents, I belonged to Pete’s crew. I thought I belonged with Har—

[click, static]

All I know is that you don’t get to decide where I belong. And maybe I don’t get to decide either, maybe no one is the master of their own fate, or maybe all of us are. Maybe the earth decided that human beings didn’t belong in it at all anymore, and like a New York City exterminator trying to get rid of cockroaches just…missed a few.

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

It’s been exactly six months since I left. 

I can’t quite believe it. It feels so much longer than that in some ways and in others, it feels like it was yesterday that I took my keys and went. 

It’s funny, reflecting on that day now. I can’t remember if I’ve talked about it before, but I sure think about it a lot. The day of my liberation. I’ve been referring to it like that in my head for six months, with a grand story to go along with it. 

Me, getting so fed up with Harry, with being stuck in that house, with not knowing what was going on, that I tugged on my boots and put on my coat, grabbed my keys in a huff and started the car, no destination in mind, just driving to drive and then not stopping. Like some kind of grand escape—and I know about escapes. 

That’s not how it was at all. It was deliberate. It was planned. Anything else would’ve been stupid as hell—I didn’t know what was out here, I needed to make sure that I had food and clothes and clean water and extra gasoline and whatever else I might need. 

I’m back on the road this morning, heading East once more, like hitting the far west coast slingshot me right back toward the way I came. I don’t know why really, but part of me is…sad to be leaving so soon. Maybe because I haven’t had that feeling of rightness—of belonging—before. But belonging in a place pales in comparison to figuring out what’s going on. To possibly meeting someone. 

I’m trying not to get ahead of myself. Even if you say that someone would’ve had to be there to turn on the alarm, I can’t—I can’t bear to get my hopes up and be disappointed. So I’m choosing to believe that it was somehow…tripped, and if I find something different, great. But I’m not going to expect it. 

I was mapping out the route and it would take me about three days to get back to Kansas if I really hustled. But the fastest route is going to take me straight through Colorado again. So I might as well hit Denver first, try to understand what the hell that whole thing was about. With the supplies I picked up yesterday, I should be prepared for…well, for anything. 

I hope. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Alright, I think I’m nearly ready to hit the road again. I drove around a bit today, partly to see more of LA in case I don’t come back and partly to look for supplies. And I hit the jackpot. 

There’s this enormous supply store, army surplus place—I’m not really sure what it is, but it’s right off Santa Monica Boulevard and seems to be an emporium of anything you might need for the end of the world. I refilled all the basics—first aid kit, kerosene, lighters, C-rations—grabbed some new knives and tools now that mine have dulled a little. I even found a ton of batteries that hadn’t corroded, so, yeah, jackpot. 

This place even had fucking potassium iodide tablets, which I guess are supposed to help with radiation poisoning, so I grabbed some of those, you know, just in case. I don’t know how I could possibly encounter radiation now, but, you know, I want to be prepared for every eventuality. 

So I stocked up on weapons too. Which feels…odd. And to be clear, to anyone who might be listening, my first instinct is not to treat any potential other survivors as hostile. I’m certainly not hostile. But, I don’t know, anything could happen, right? With all the weird shit of the past six months…I mean, not that a machete or a gun could help me against a tornado or a ghost, and that dog certainly didn’t seem rabid or dangerous but…

I’ve stuffed them deep in my trunk. The gun and the machete. This place had fucking machetes for god’s sake. I’m not planning on using either of them, at any point, but…well, I don’t know what I don’t know, right? That’s really what it comes down to. Anything could happen. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Well, not quite as quick as I’d wanted but thanks for getting back to me within a day at least. 

Yes. You said yes. Which means…shit, Birdie. That’s…I’m not sure even how I should react to that. It feels—I mean, its revelatory, isn’t it? I—

[click, static]

Sorry, I’m…I’m overwhelmed I guess. The thought that, after all this time, there really is someone out there to find…

[click, static]

No, you know what? I can’t think like that. I can’t assume anything. Not yet. Not until I found out for certain. 

Which I guess…I guess that means I’m going back to Kansas first. So…so much for California sunshine. I wonder what Kansas in January is like. Probably not as nice as LA. Not that it matters. This is obviously more important. If someone—

[click, static]

Nope. Not going there right now. You know what I am thinking in this moment though? Why the fuck didn’t you tell me this at the time? Why are you telling me now? What kind of game are you playing with me? I swear to god, Birdie…

[click, static]

Did you ever see that movie “Gaslight”? You know, the one where this shitty guy tries to make his wife believe she’s going insane? He keeps dimming the lights but when she notices, he just tells her she’s seeing things?

This feels a little like that, Birdie. Like I get on here every day and talk about how the lights aren’t as bright as they usually are and then you send me a message saying that the lights haven’t changed at all. And then when I start to believe you—start to trust you over my own eyes—you change your tune and tell me there are no lights at all. 

Well, fuck you. I’m going to go see for myself how bright the lights are. And if I find that you’re the person that’s been hiding away in Kansas…well, I’m not sure what I’ll do. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

“Tornado not automated”—at least this message isn’t as cryptic as the last but…it’s unsettling in a different way. 

Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Birdie? That the tornado warning system is…what, triggered by a person, not the tornado itself? That it would’ve been turned on by—by an actual human being? That that’s the only way it would’ve been turned on? 

I—yeah, I’m actually going to need you to answer me before I do anything else. I need to be certain that I’m understanding you. So. Please. Don’t go dark again. Tell me if I’m right. Did a person turn on that tornado siren back in Kansas?

[click, static]

[beeps]

-.-- . ...

Yes

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Breaker, breaker, this is WAR 1974 calling out from Los Feliz, Los Angeles. 

Huh. Low-s Feliz. Loss Angeles. Is it Loss Feliz? Loss Fell-IS? Lows Fell-IS? Francis always said Low-s Feel-iz, but I have no idea if he was right. I know nothing about Spanish, so I’m pretty sure I’d butcher any pronunciation. 

Anyway, it’s a new day, I’ve made a shit ton of lemonade with all the lemons I picked in the neighborhood and I’m feeling…well, if not good. Motivated. I’m setting the gloves and Harry aside, the cryptic message and Birdie aside, and I’m ready to start anew. 

Except…I don’t actually know where to start. I’ve written down everything I know, gone through it over and over and none of it is clicking together in any kind of coherent way. The best lead I have is what happened in Estes Park and, by extension, whatever the deal is in Denver too. 

That’s as good a place to start as any. Circle back to Denver, danger be damned, and try to see if that city holds any answers. 

But if there really is something there that could harm me…how do I prepare myself? What kind of danger am I looking at? I guess I could get some weapons, get a bigger, sturdier car—

Oh yeah, I didn’t mention the car I did settle on after the old one broke down. It is a thing of beauty—a 1965 Ford Thunderbird. Red and hardly driven based on the mileage. I picked the first car that worked on the 210 in order to get myself here but then when I saw this baby a few streets over I couldn’t resist. It might not be the most practical—not a ton of storage space—but who needs stuff anyway, right? It can hold all the essentials. That’s what matters. 

But would it hold up in whatever…collision is in Denver? I don’t know. I guess I’ll just have to find out. 

[click, static]

[beeps]

---- .-. -. .- -.. --- / -. --- - / .- ..- - --- -- .- - . -..

Tornado not automated

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Fuck you, Harry. You absolute goddamn sneak. 

I threw everything from the old car into the new pretty haphazardly, and I decided to really organize it today, take stuff out of my bags, switch out my cold weather clothes for warm weather ones and I guess I haven’t dug into all the pockets yet, because I found…

You knit me goddamn mittens, didn’t you? Snuck them into my bag before I left like some kind of…

I packed this bag myself, it was empty when I did, so I know these aren’t left over from…I mean, even if I hadn’t packed it myself, what would they be left over from? A trip we never took? And the mittens, they’re blue, which you know is my favorite color you goddamn—

[click, static]

Of course I find these when I’m in Southern California. When I need them the least. There’s something…there’s something in you hiding a fucking handcrafted thing that took you time, you hiding it for me to find, me only finding it when I no longer need it. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere. 

But I’m too…I’m too taken off guard to try and figure out what the hell it means. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Okay, laying everything out for myself, part two. I got so distracted the other day with all the Birdie bullshit that I didn’t even think about the stuff I do know because I’ve experienced it. Once again, seeing my world through the lens of someone else instead of just fucking trusting my own instincts. 

I’m going to try to go through anything and everything that’s felt slightly off or unusual, no matter how small or inconsequential. 

So, let’s start small. The dog in Kansas. Stray dogs are one thing, but that one looked so well loved. So clean. But Kansas was so empty—felt like one of the emptier states I’ve been to—and I looked. I tried to find the dog, to see where it lived, to see if anyone was there taking care of it and came up with nothing. 

Speaking of Kansas, the tornado. The tornado isn’t weird in of itself—Kansas gets tornadoes—but the alarm…there wasn’t very much power in Kansas. And I’m not sure how those sirens work, but presumably they’re on some kind of grid, which would suggest that I would’ve seen some kind of power on somewhere, but there wasn’t. So another case of phantom power? A grid for just the warning system that didn’t power anything visible? I have too many questions about it. 

Vegas had a lot of power, so the fire alarm going off makes a little bit more sense to me, especially since a fire alarm system is contained within one building. But was there even any fire? That’s the question—did the alarm just get tripped somehow, with a power surge or by something else…by someone else. 

Power in general! It doesn’t seem to have any rhyme or reason why sometimes it’s on and sometimes it’s not. A jukebox playing music, but no power on the electric stovetop. Like someone bothered to fix the wiring just to play music but not eat. 

Maybe I’m putting personification where there is none but it’s…weird. It’s all weird. 

Then there’s all the lack of evidence—the lack of damage, the fact that stores are still well stocked instead of picked over…all the cars just left abandoned even though they’re all full of gas and perfectly fine as far as I can tell, beyond the wear and tear that happens when a car is left to the elements for years on end. 

Harry trying to contact me. That’s maybe not evidence of anything important but, um, it still feels…noteworthy. 

And finally, the big one—the Stanley Hotel. There were so many weird things. No power but my radio turned on. That feeling of dread. Seeing that…vision. 

A man. An ordinary man. Who could he have been? What could he have been? Was he really seeing me?

I’ve been thinking about nuclear shadows. Apparently, when you drop a nuclear bomb, the blast bleaches everything, that’s how strong the light from the explosion is. So when something—or someone—is in the way of that light, their shadow doesn’t get lightened. The shape of them is left behind, so they say. 

Sometimes I feel like that. Like I’m a blast shadow of my former self. Maybe that’s what he was too. Some kind of…remnant. Echo. Of some time before the blast. 

[click, static]

I don’t know, none of it makes sense. I can write it all down in ink and still can’t read what any of the words mean put together. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Sorry, I got all worked up in my last transmission that I had to go outside and—well, I wanted to chop wood, but that doesn't seem like a common past time here, which isn’t a surprise, so I just went around the neighborhood picking as many citrus fruits from trees as I could find. I just needed to do something physical. 

I’m just…I feel like I’m the only person not laughing at the circus. Or maybe I’m the clown, I don’t know. But how does this keep happening to me. How do I keep ending up entwined with people who fucking lie to me—

[click, static]

It must be me, right? I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly trusting person, but maybe I am. Maybe I’m just fucking gullible. Or maybe I just want to believe the best in people. But it keeps failing me. I keep trusting all the wrong people and ending up hurt and frustrated and…

It isn’t even that I trusted Birdie. I didn’t. Not completely. I trusted them as much as circumstance necessitated. I had to take them at their word, because what else was there? Better to assume they’re telling the truth than live in a prison of suspicion and conspiracy…   

No. Fuck it. Let suspicion reign. Maybe if I’d been a little less trusting of Harry, I wouldn’t have gotten my heart—

[click, static]

Jesus, this whole neighborhood is going to be out of fruit by the time I’m done! 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Alright, I’ve had some time to calm down. Get my head on straight. And maybe I should stop broadcasting entirely, but now that I’m on the other side of the country, who knows, maybe there will be some people here. Maybe this will finally reach sympathetic ears. 

Also, I’ve gotten pretty used to talking out loud into this thing. It helps me think. So. 

Here’s where I’m at—I spent the weekend looking through all my notes of everything that Birdie has said and every weird thing that’s happened and I’m going to lay it all out—everything I know—and try to figure out how the fuck it connects, if it does at all. 

[click, static]

So. Messages that Birdie has sent me that make me fucking angry: 

Telling me to stay out of Denver because it’s a “collision point” and then refusing to explain what that means. 

Telling me I was wrong about my actions not having consequences and then refusing to explain what that means. 

Saying that their job was important, that they betrayed it, and that it hurt people and then, you know, not explaining it. 

And here are the things I know about Birdie—or I think I know: 

They’ve been in the same spot this whole time. They’ve never encountered anyone else. They’re pretty good with a radio, having gotten it to broadcast this far, they don’t have physical speaking capabilities, and they’re trained in Morse code. Though to be fair, I’m technically trained in Morse code by now, so I’m not sure how revealing that is as a biographical fact. 

And here are the things that Birdie has definitely lied about: That they don’t know what happened. 

[click, static]

I don’t know if you found out what happened between you first contacting me and us talking in real-time. But one of your first messages to me was that you didn’t know what happened. And then when we spoke, you said you did, but that it was too complicated to explain in Morse code. So which is it?

[click, static]

Of course there’s a chance that you’ve been working much harder than me at actually trying to figure out what happened and you did it, you figured it out, but…well, Occam’s Razor right? I’ve spent nearly half a year driving around the country, looking for people, looking for answers and, sure, I haven’t been scientific about it, but I must have had a better chance of stumbling across something than you, a person who seems to have been sitting by their radio nonstop for 6 years. 

Then again, there were those weeks-long stretches where you didn’t contact me at all, so maybe…

[click, static]

No, the simplest explanation is that you lied. If I’m being generous, maybe you lied because you didn’t know if you could trust me and then, over the course of a few months, you decided you could. You decided you trusted me enough to talk to me and tell me the truth. But to what end? Why tell me you know what happened, if you couldn’t explain what happened? What would that accomplish?

And that’s such a huge thing to lie about—I mean, I’ve lied in these transmissions, I’ve lied to you, but nothing big. Nothing…consequential. I choose to just not say anything at all instead of telling a big lie. But that’s a big lie, Birdie. That’s an intentional lie—whether the lie was that early message you sent me or when we talked, whichever one it is, it’s a big lie. And it has me thinking…

You don’t make that kind of big lie unless you’re confident in your ability to deceive. That’s the kind of falsehood that’s spoken by an experienced liar, not an amateur. So it wouldn’t have been the only lie you told me. 

But experienced liars don’t fuck up unless they start to lose track of what lies they’ve told. So if you fucked up when you talked to me and told me the truth—that you do know what happened—then, well Birdie, that tells me you’re losing track of the lies. Which means that everything you’ve told me—everything—isn’t to be believed. 

Which puts me…well, if my intent here is to lay out everything I know that I’m pretty sure I’ve already failed. I know fucking nothing. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

You do know that you’re going to have to give me a little more than “West” right? I mean…we’ll do it, we’ll start going West now, but there’s still a lot of West left, so I need you to narrow it down. 

She keeps calling me Whiskey. Harry, I mean. And she seems to really not mind—she seems to even like that I call her Harry but I never expected her to even call me Abi with any regularity but…

She said that she started to think of that name when she thought of me because listening to all my transmissions made her feel like she was finally meeting the real thing. The real me. I said that I’d never tried to hide from her before, that other than certain…feelings, I’ve always been exactly who I am. She—well, she skated right over the feelings bit, which I’m honestly grateful for—and said that it’s different, to hear someone talk when they think no one is listening. That she started to understand more about the way that I think, the way I feel things. And she’s started to think of that person, the real me, as Whiskey. 

I think it’s a little more than that to be honest. I think…I think Abi—Abigail is the person that she betrayed. The person she lied to, that she hurt, whereas Whiskey is someone who spends a lot of time talking about her, but maybe isn’t carrying as much anger around as Abi was in those last few months we were together. 

I sometimes wonder if she would want to go back to being strangers if we could. I sometimes wonder if I would want that. If I’d been alone when I got here—pretending, for sake of argument, that I ended up in this little wasteland of a world through some other means. What if I’d been alone and I went on my road trip and Harry was the person I found. In that context, what would we have been to each other now?

It doesn’t matter in any case—life doesn’t work like that. I can’t forget everything I know about her and everything she’s done to me even if I tried. Even if I could…that’s the easy way out, isn’t it? And nothing with Harry has ever been easy. 

[click, static]

[beeps]

.... .- .-. .-. -.-- .-..-. ... / .-.. . - - . .-.

Harry’s letter

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Fuck you, Birdie. 

Are you serious? You don’t contact me for weeks except to say “Happy Birthday” and now you send me the first substantial message since the last time we talked and you said some stuff that you still haven’t explained and this is what you have to say to me?

“You don’t belong?” 

What the hell does that mean? Who are you to decide where I do and do not belong. If I feel like I belong here, then I belong here. And if this is some kind of twisted way of driving me out of Los Angeles because you’re here—which, don’t think I didn’t notice that your message sounded a little different, maybe like it’s clearer or closer, I don’t know but—well, then you have failed to do that because I’ll search every inch of the city to find you if you’re here. 

“You don’t belong”. Fuck you. 

[click, static]

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Breaker, breaker, this is Whiskey calling out from my driveway. Well, my current driveway, I’m not sure I can call it mine. 

Although, if “you break it, you bought it” still applies in this upside down world, then I guess the house sort of is mine. 

I broke it. The house I mean. The wiring, at least. I know, I know, I said I wasn’t going to do constant work, turn this place into the Winchester Mystery House like Harry always accused me, and I’m not! There are just some basic improvements that are going to make my life easier. Turns out, the power doesn’t work in every room, so I was trying to figure out what went wrong with the wiring and in the process, it seems I’ve cut out power to the whole house. Way to go, Whiskey. 

So that’s going to be my project for the weekend it seems. And obviously this means I can hook up the radio inside, but I’ll be sure to check in through the day, so Birdie, if you feel like chirping at any point, that’d be great. Just do what you usually do and set those messages to repeat. 

But not even your absence or royally fucking up the wiring can dampen my mood. It’s so beautiful here, so warm and bright, and it feels good to have a concrete project ahead of me. Things feel right here. It feels like I belong here more than I ever belonged in Pennsylvania. Sun on my face and lemon trees on my block. 

My block. My house, my terrible electricity. Even if I only stay for a few weeks, it feels good to have something I chose, instead of something I had simply because that’s the situation I landed myself in. 

New year, new start. Things are going to be better. They have to be. 

[click, static]

[beeps]

-.-- --- ..- / -.. --- -. .----. - / -... . .-.. --- -. --.

You don't belong

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

I picked a house a little bit at random the other day - it was on a block of a bunch of sweet craftsman homes and this one had a nice tree in the yard and when I went inside the power actually worked so… 

I guess that isn’t entirely random. But it isn’t like it was entirely deliberate either. But it turns out, it’s nice. It’s really nice. All the furniture is, well, it’s dusty as hell, but it’s nice furniture. The kitchen is a pretty decent size and has this big window that looks out on the backyard. Which is, of course, very overgrown, but with a little bit of work—

I don’t know why my instinct is to settle down here. I know I said I wanted to take a break from driving for a little while and that’s true—especially now that the days are short—but I keep looking around this place and thinking about how long certain repairs are going to take me, or what kind of garden I could turn the backyard into. 

What kind of garden I could turn it into, that is. I’m hoping that being in a warmer climate will make it easier to grow things, but I’ve still got to start simple. Pick produce that’s hearty, hard to kill. 

See? I keep having thoughts like that and then I have to stop and remind myself that I don’t have to do that anymore. I don’t have to make a home, or anything, just because I’m tired. I can just…relax in a place for a little while. It doesn’t have to be constant work. 

[click, static]

Not that I’m going to just sit here and what…read? Walk around the reservoir—

Oh yeah, there’s a really beautiful lake near here—the Silver Lake reservoir. I think I made the right choice with this neighborhood. I’ve certainly christened it, what with waking up in a bar this morning, I…

I think I may have gotten a little carried away. I had my radio with me and I’m not sure if I said…well, let’s just say I had a lot to drink and I don’t totally remember if I got on and broadcast anything after the beach so if I did let’s just pretend I didn’t. 

Anyway, I’m not going to be a total layabout. I’m not gonna wake up in a bar again. Part of why I wanted to take a beat, have one central living spot for a little bit is to…process everything. It feels right, now that I’m on the other side of the country and it’s almost been half a year since I left. The right time to think back on the trip so far and…yeah, process. 

Because there are things—a lot of things—that don’t make any sense to me. And for so long those things have been too small or too mysterious to really do anything about. I’ve had nowhere to start when it comes to figuring out what the hell is going on, what the hell happened in Estes Park, what the hell your whole deal is, Birdie. I’ve been taking notes on everything you’ve ever said, every weird thing that happened to me on the road, and maybe it’s time for me to…Dick Tracy it. Get out the red string and try to put the clues together. Or, at the very least, figure out the best things to ask you when I eventually do get you back on the radio. And I'm going to. 

I meant what I said on New Year’s Eve. I’m going to find you. And that’s…that’s not a threat. But it is a promise. 

[click, static]