Things have been different since the broadcast. Different is certainly something to talk about around here, where every house looks alike and every family has the same number of kids and breed of dog. It’s not a thrilling place, but there’s a comfort to the monotony. A person can fade safely away in the sea of sameness. I’ve only been here a few months and I’m practically already gone. But that voice on the radio might yank me back. 

    The first time we heard the voice was three weeks ago. It wasn’t all that late; people were home from work, dinner was winding down at the diner where I waitress. I took advantage of a slow moment to wipe pancake grease off my wrist. The radio played soft, a group of boys singing about a group of girls. And then the crooners went silent, so did the rest of the diner as a sound like shredding paper rolled over the airwaves. Before I could reach the switch to turn it off we heard the voice. It was a man, clear and intent. He spoke a woman’s name and nothing more. The stillness lifted as customers murmured to each other. Truckers and road trippers trickled toward the center of the parking lot to exchange what would quickly become the town’s most popular new phrase: I heard it too. 

    Every radio stays on constantly now. Once a day without fail they all tune to shredding paper, he says her name, and everyone is left wondering. The whole town floats in a strange euphoria. Parents aren’t sure whether to be worried or bemused, and the police station is flooded with tips for a crime that hasn’t been committed. Meanwhile, the girls who share the mysterious man’s spoken name rise to a rung above the rest of us. Who does the voice belong to? They wonder dreamily. Is he looking for me?

    But I know that voice. I’d know it anywhere. And I know exactly who he’s looking for. I haven’t been anywhere out of walking distance since I moved here but suddenly I want to drive all night.