Static Road

The sun hangs low, red as a brake light. The boy coasts into a crossroads where four shuttered shops lean against one another like tired cows. A glass phone booth sits in the center, door ajar, handset dangling. It rocks, tapping the metal frame, though no wind moves.

Ruckus growls. The boy grips the bat across his chest and rolls a slow circle around the booth. No dial tone, no ring—only that soft tap … tap … tap.

Trust the dog. The lesson runs through his mind like a slow drumbeat. Ruckus noses north, away from the booth, but curiosity itches behind the boy’s teeth. He edges closer.

Inside, the receiver’s cord coils like a pale snake. He lifts it an inch; the booth’s bulbs flicker and die. Across the street, two adults step from a doorway. They freeze when he freezes, tilting their heads at the same angle. Glassy eyes, silent mouths.

A single fluorescent tube above the liquor store pops and sputters back to life. Both adults snap upright, attention welded to the light. Ruckus barks once—sharp, urgent. The boy whispers, “Good dog,” lets the receiver fall, and backs onto his board.

He starts to count—five, four—then swallows the rest. He kicks off hard. Ruckus sprints beside him, shoulder brushing his knee.

Behind them, the dangling handset keeps its lopsided rhythm, and the two adults glide after the sound.