One at a time. Say who you are. Say what you need. Get off the air and let the next one in.
The deputy’s face had gone the color of the road.
“Ma’am,” he said. His voice had changed too. “Who are you?”
She didn’t get the chance to answer him.
“Kessler One.”
Everything else on that radio stopped. Even the hiss seemed to hold its breath.
It was a big man’s voice, in a moving vehicle, with the windows down. You could hear the wind roaring through it.
“Shirley. It’s Tom.”
Sheriff Tom Hanley. I knew the name from the yard signs every election year.
“Where are you standing?”
She couldn’t answer unless the deputy pressed the button for her. She looked at him. She waited. She didn’t reach for it. She just stood there with her hands folded over the clasp of her handbag and waited.
