It starts at midnight. It always starts at midnight. As soon as the clock strikes the hour, the radio turns itself on and a broadcaster begins to speak. “Greetings,” they say, or, “Hello there!” or, occasionally, “All is lost. All is doomed. Take hold of your loved ones and prepare for the end.” Those broadcasts mostly consist of broken sobbing and long guttural moans.

The radio tells of different places; a strange desert, a forest town, an underwater city; every broadcast is somewhere different, but always with the radio host’s slow, smooth tones to guide the precious few who listen.

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