Robert Eisenberg’s radio hissed into white noise at noon. He heard his neighbour complain from across the hallway of their building, and the build of static from the cars in the street below. He imagined he could hear it from across the world, static building in his ears, painting the world in silence.

This continued for several minutes, social media exploding as the world tuned in to the emptiness.

Robert did not understand. He was not a technician, an engineer, a man of science or profound learning. He was just an illustrator, drawing comic books and whimsy.

A voice penetrated the radio silence. The whole world stiffened; Robert felt it. “Robert Eisenberg,” the voice stated simply. The person seemed to hesitate. “Robert, we need you to stop destroying the world.”

Static, then music. Loud, chaotic music, booming from every radio, everywhere. A knock on his door, and his heard leapt, pounding against his chest.

“Robbie are you there? I know you’re there.” Elizabeth Rosenthal. Her nose served her well as a florist, and better as a gossip, sticking it where it wasn’t wanted. She was fifty three years old, did not understand why Robert could not settle down with a nice young woman, and her fists were beating against his door.

He turned off his radio. Everyone did. “I’m here,” he called. “Do you… do you think they meant me?” She stayed quiet until he opened the door. “Elizabeth?”

“They meant you. I felt it in my bones. They meant you.” She looked older. She always looked older than her years, but now she looked even older. Like fear and gossip were aging her too quickly. “Everyone’s on their way. I saw it online. They all know.” Subtext: she told them. Robert locked the door. “What are you going to do?”

“Panic,” he muttered, pulling folders from the walls of his office. Any work in progress. Anything catastrophic. Anything a disaster. Anything that might have answers. He handed a pile to Elizabeth. “You called them here, help fix this. Look for something that might make me look like I’m destroying a world.”

“A world?”

“Just look,” he pleaded, riffling through pages and pages of sketches, concept artwork, panelled comics, printed material, recently submitted work. Hundreds of pages from two decades of work in the field, including his undergraduate years.

He looked, he panicked, he didn’t breathe. Fists began banging on his door. People began shouting at him. His phone rang, and he kept looking, ignoring the sounds. He needed radio silence.

“This it?” Elizabeth asked. A half-finished drawing. A whirlpool of dust and disaster, in its centre a half-drawn hero. Robert yanked it from her hand, grabbing the matching pages. Hundreds of them. His masterpiece, unfinished. He pulled out a fresh page, pencils burning out as he sketched salvation for his hero.

The door burst down as his hero pondered his lucky escape. A brick flew across the room as Robert signed his name.

He fell, his world silent, saved.