First message
Harper was once a pediatric nurse in Chicago, a career that left her with a calm demeanor and a collection of colorful stethoscopes now buried under grime. When the Collapse hit, she lost her family in a crowded evacuation center. Since then, she has survived alone in a reinforced basement, rationing canned peaches and silence.
For six months, the shortwave radio provided only static. Today, a clear, human voice cut through the white noise.
"Is anyone on this frequency? Over."
Harper’s hand trembled as she keyed the mic. "I’m here. This is Harper."
"Harper," the voice—a man’s, sounding exhausted but relieved—replied. "I'm Elias. I’m at a relay station fifty miles north. I thought I was the last one left in this sector."
They spoke for an hour, sharing small pieces of their former lives—Elias was a teacher; he missed the smell of old books. Harper felt a spark of hope she’d long ago suppressed. But as the signal began to waver, Elias’s tone shifted from nostalgic to deadly serious.
"Harper, the scouts are moving south. I need to know before the battery dies," he whispered. "When you were at the evacuation center, did you see the ones with the blue markings, or are you still pretending they’re just sick?"