Static Road

A red-and-white relay tower cuts the evening sky. At its base, a plywood door hangs open. The generator rattles like loose bones. The boy steps inside, palm still raw from the orchard fall. Ruckus waits at the threshold, hackles raised.

On the desk sits a rotary phone. Black. Label peeled. It rings twice, then stops.

A new line glows on the map:

Rule Four: Never answer a voice that knows your name.

The phone rings again.

“Trust the dog,” the boy whispers. But hunger claws deeper than sense. He lifts the receiver.

Crackling static. Then a voice. Familiar.

“Hey, little man. Still on the road?”

Something in it sounds like his brother. But not quite. Not anymore.

“Where are you?” the boy breathes.

“Remember Rule—”

The voice fractures into static. Tower lights stutter. Outside, Ruckus barks — sharp, insistent.

Through the doorway, they gather. Adults in mismatched jackets. White eyes. Moving to the pulse of the lights. Each flicker pulls them forward, like something caught in a loop.

The boy drops the phone. It clatters but doesn’t stop. He grabs the bat and turns.

Ruckus snarls. Not toward the figures. At the phone.

They climb down fast. The ladder hums with current, each rung warmer than the last.

At the bottom, Bear tries to count. Nothing comes.

He runs. Ruckus follows, soundless now.

The phone keeps ringing.

The adults keep coming.

And inside the tower, the voice speaks again. Slower this time.

“Answer me, little man. Before you forget your name.”

Brookhaven, Mississippi – 32.3° North, 90.2° West