It was funny, she thought.
To think they had thought the radio antiquated, that the sound of something that came from the airwaves instead of tablet, a glowing screen, a glowing screen had ever held any meaning. What she really missed were books. She only had one with her.
No text or paper remained, but when she saw a radio or a stereo, she turned on the radio. There were still others out there, ones that she could find-if only she were close enough to them and if she could find the signal. She would flip the knobs and wonder if she’d hear anything. A lot of the time, there would be no power or no batteries in the thing. Other times, the signal was weak and filled with static, but still she hoped.
With every knob she turned, every button she pressed, every flickering screen she slid her fingers over, there was the chance she’d hear a voice.
For her, that was enough.
This time, however, when she reached out and turned the knob of the little transistor radio-it was caked with grime and tucked into the dirt; the sound she heard wasn’t static. It was people talking. She wondered who was having the conversation, who would have been listening in. She wondered what kind of person would listen in on someone else. She also knew that, with the range of the radio, the conversation had to be coming from nearby. She turned the knob and there was a start of static. She said a small prayer. These kinds of radio’s always lasted, they always worked-well, almost always.
This time, however, instead of hoping for words to come to her and give her hope, this time, she listened to them being given to her and wondered where they came from.