When the voices came on the radio, I was playing with my grandfather on the front lawn.

He was sitting in his rocking chair, and I was out on the lawn when I heard it, a long

whistle on the radio then.

Come here, Billy! Come here now!

Mom began screaming. Dad was running toward me. Grandpa reached me first. Hands clustered

over my ears, so hard it left a ringing noise. He was a serious and stern old man, and

I was always a bit afraid of him. Now he yelled at me over and over.

Don't listen to him, Billy. Don't listen. His voice came out in a suffocated whisper.

Please, God, don't let him listen. I love him.

The old man's lying face was scrunched over. He was crying. I began to cry too. I could hear

my mom and dad screaming in the distance, along horrible whales. I thought they were going

insane.

I love you, Billy. Don't you leave us? I love you.

We stayed like that for a bit, grasping each other. When he let go, it was quiet outside.

On the porch, mom was standing over the wrecked parts of the radio, a basketball bat in

her hands. That was the last radio in our house. After that day, that old man and I were

never close. He never said anything like that before or after. I wonder if he got embarrassed.

That day, though, it scared him, and he didn't care.

In my old town, there's a whistle, and it puts the fear of God in old men. It comes sometimes,

and it comes for us. No matter how painfully familiar it became, none of us understood it.

Who was the one whistling? What do they want?

Asking such questions was as useful as screaming into a well. All you'd get back was echoes.

...