Breaker Whiskey

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday. ------ [TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] She’s alive. I can’t believe it but she— In the Carhartt—I, I put it on after I couldn’t go back to sleep and I was pulling it tight around me when I heard this crinkle—it’s like she knew— It’s fucking chicken blood— I’m sorry, I just need—a need a second, I— [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] I woke up in the middle of the night—I’m still at Richie’s loft and I— for a second, I thought I could hear laughter from the other room. When I was very, very small, my parents would have these two couples over for dinner once a month. They would play faro—which is an absolutely ancient game that my mom’s dad used to play with her when she was growing up and, I swear, my parents were the last people in the world to play it— But anyway, they’d have their friends over and we’d all have dinner together and then they’d play cards until about midnight—or at least, it felt like they were up until late, but I guess I was going to bed so early then. But our house wasn't very big and my room was just off the kitchen, the only room where we had a table big enough for six people and I’d fall asleep to the sounds of their murmuring voices. And if I woke up at all, I’d hear that—their hushed laughter, like a warm breeze coming in from the next room. That’s how I feel. In this loft, in Sylvie’s shop, in this whole city—like I’m just the next room over. Maybe I was just dreaming about the times we used to have in this loft, or maybe I really did hear laughter from the living room. Because I’ve heard things before—I’ve seen things. The man in the hotel room in Colorado—I think he really was there. I think our worlds overlapped, just enough, that we got a glimpse. And maybe that’s happening here. Richie isn’t in this loft anymore, not unless he got out early, but there’s something nice, comforting, in thinking that this place, even now, with whoever occupies it, is still filled with joy. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] I went to Sylvie’s shop. She’s still there. I’m—I can’t believe it—she’s still there, doing her thing as far as I can tell, customers and all— [click, static] Jesus, I just realized—she’s not there-there. She’s not here. She’s there. God, fuck, um—not to give anyone false hope—I wanted to see if I could prove my theory about the polaroid, or at the very least gather some more evidence in such a big city and I was looking for Don in this pizza place right down the block from Sylvie’s shop and thought…what the hell. It’s clear that no one’s been in here in years. Which makes sense. Don knew Sylvie, a little—or at least by reputation—but this isn’t a place he’d spend time in I don’t think. So I’m probably the first one in here since ’68. And it’s… Well, it’s strange. And sad. And lonely. And a little bit comforting. Which really describes so much of the experience of being back in New York. I went to my old place. And by that I mean, I went to the last apartment I’d been living in—I was a few months into a sublet that I’d probably have been in for at least half the year, a friend of a friend of a friend’s place I’d sublet before. And, well, I actually got some of my own fucking clothes which is…god, I’d missed my boots. These nice steel-toed ones that I’d bought for myself after my first significant take. It’s nice to have them back. But there wasn’t much else there that was…mine. I mean, the place was never really mine. I did take a few polaroids, and things had been moved around, so I’m assuming the tenant came back and is living here again. I guess they either didn’t care that they missed out on a few sublet payments or they found someone else to live here while they were gone but…well, I’m glad I didn’t fuck up their life. But being at Sylvie’s is like…being at home. The smell of it, the sound of glass and china rattling in their cabinets as you walk through the shop. I loved this place. And it feels good to be back, even if I am alone. Sylvie would often work on project at the register—the shop was rarely full, but you could hardly tell if anyone else was in it with how winding and full it is. So it’d be easy for her to miss a customer if she didn’t camp out at the register. It looks like she was working on an old Tiffany lamp right before… I wonder if one of the crew brought it to her. It’s a nice piece and genuine Tiffany lamps always go for a decent price. I wonder if she finished it. I’m looking right at it but I wonder where it is now. So, anyway, I took a photo of the counter and there she was—I got lucky with the timing because she was checking out a customer who was buying an old mantle clock. There was a big pile of fabric in place of the Tiffany lamp, so I guess she’s mending things at the moment. That always relaxed her. She looked…she looked like Sylvie. Older, of course, but no worse for wear. I hope she’s happy. I hope she doesn’t wonder about me. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] (sighing) I’ve tried his apartment, his favorite bar, all of the old haunts, even a few apartments of girlfriends I knew he had now and again. I even drove out to Long Island to see if I could find where his mom was living—I found her in the book, but no one was home. Which is…odd, right? If Don’s here, it would stand to reason that his presence would ripple out to his family but…well, I guess I have no idea if she was even still alive when we were arrested. He didn’t talk about her much, mostly just about her recipes. But he liked to keep all the crime stuff away from her, I think. Maybe that’s why she’s not here. Maybe him being here and him being in prison is just the same. I don’t know if Don would have ever told her what happened to him—called her or written her from jail—because he didn’t want to disappoint her. So, maybe to her, her son is just gone, and would have always been gone, and the how or the where doesn’t affect her life enough to make a difference. I knew it would be hard—I knew finding someone in this city without being able to be in a million places at once would be hard, but part of me thinks that he must have left the city and never come back. Which is sort of unthinkable in some ways—like Pete, Don never thought about leaving New York. Richie would talk sometimes about missing Chicago, and wanting to go back there, but Don and Pete and Harry would’ve died in New York if they’d had any say. But I also see why maybe…he’d want to leave now. The city is…very eerie all empty like this. Worse than Vegas or Denver, maybe because I know this city, I know what it’s supposed to sound like, look like, feel like. I know what it feels like when it’s teeming with people. There’s a sense of…wrongness now that there’s no one here. Maybe he just couldn’t take it. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday. ------ [TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] (laughing) Against every single fucking odd, Don is alive. He’s alive and here and— [click, static] I can’t believe it, the first place I decide to check—Richie's shitty fucking Alphabet City loft—and Don has left a fucking note. It’s—well, it’s just so Don. [click, static] (clearing her throat) “To whoever the fuck might be out there reading this—if you’ve found this, that means you knew Richie, and knew him well enough to go looking for him, which means you’re either one of our crew or you’ve got a few screws loose and you were friends with Richie because of his personality. But, screws loose or not, if you’re in this empty world then I guess I’d like to know you. You can come on over to—“ And then he wrote his address, which I am not going to read out loud “—or—“ and then the name of his favorite bar, which I’m also not going to tell you, “where I am most days.” (laughing) Classic Don. “And if you’re Richie and you’re reading this—where the hell have you been? P.S. You still owe me fifteen bucks for that Mets game—never bet against the Mets.” Maybe things aren’t so bad. Maybe even if this whole crazy situation can’t be fixed…maybe we’ll still be okay. I’ll see you soon, Don. [click, static] [beeps] .. - / -.-. .- -. / -... . / ..-. .. -..- . -.. it can be fixedSee Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday. ------ [TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] I had the thought—Harry’s contact, whoever they were, whoever she had worked things out with at the…well, whoever it was she was working with, I didn’t ask, I was still so fucking— [click, static] They have to be here, right? And it’s not like I’m some great friend of Johnny Law, but surely whoever it was, if they are here, they’d still care about stuff like someone getting murdered. Maybe…maybe I could get them to help me find Harry, or figure out what the fuck to do about Junior. If that person is out there, they’d be in New York, right? They’d have to be. And so would Pete and Don and Richie—hell, maybe even Sylvie, though just like Francis, she was already in her golden years so I’m not sure— Well, regardless, I’m halfway to New York. I don’t think it matters if I tell you I’m headed there, because if there’s one place that’s good to disappear, it’s New York. Even without all the people, there’s hundreds of streets and thousands of buildings and millions of rooms to hide away in. Even if you got on the highway right now and raced there, I still don’t think you’d be able to find me. Which…maybe doesn’t bode well for the likelihood of me finding any of my old crew—or whoever Harry was conspiring with—but at least I have an idea of where to look—apartments, old hangouts, penthouses we’d robbed that I’m sure any of us would take advantage of living in now…I’m not going in totally blind. God, it would be nice to have someone else with me. I mean, that’s always been true, after the first few weeks of getting some fucking real alone time for the first time in six years, after I’d come down from the righteous fury that was still— Well, it was nice, for half a second. To be on my own, to be totally unfettered. But for most of this extended roadtrip, it would’ve been nice to have someone by my side. Navigating, scanning the radio channels for anything, playing road games or whatever. Driving so that I could sleep in the passenger seat. So there’s rarely been a moment where I didn’t want someone with me. But right now…there’s a reason I started running with a crew when Pete invited me, instead of carrying on on my own. I’d been doing fine, pulling in decent hauls by myself, but even though you’ve got more people who have noisy fucking footsteps or who might make a stupid mistake that might cost you, it always feels…safer with someone else around. I wish I had someone to watch my back. I wish I had someone to help me find Harry. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday. ------ [TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] I’ll be next if what? Fox, if you’re trying to tell me that I’ll be next if I go seeking out Junior, if you’re trying to tell me that there’s a next to be, that he already got to Harry— Shit. Fuck, what the fuck— [click, static] And what was with the long tone, huh? Is that you, Birdie? I get the feeling you two don’t like each other, but blocking out each other’s messages or talking over each other is not helpful to me, so keep that to your own time. Communicate on a different frequency, I don’t give a shit. Just stop getting in the way. I’m not interested in whatever petty sci-fi overseer timeline bullshit rivalry you two have going on. [click, static] Is that what you meant, Birdie? When you said you betrayed your job and hurt people? Was Fox one of those people you hurt? Because, jesus, that sure would be a fucking weird coincidence, wouldn’t it? Both of us trapped in some kind of weird locked horns battle with the one person who betrayed us and ruined our lives. Are you and Fox also— [click, static] This is a distraction. It’s just my fucking luck that the moment you two start chiming in again—the moment I start to maybe fucking understand what the hell is going on here— I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Clearly. I don’t want to be next. Not if Harry…look, I’m not saying I’d go in her place, I’m not saying I’d die for— [click, static] Why does anyone have to die? Why can’t we just talk like human beings? Do you really want to kill the only two people you know to exist in this world, Junior? Is getting revenge worth being alone for the rest of time? [click, static] Then again, maybe you’re having the thought that I’ve had—that if you just kill what got you here, remove me from the board, and Harry too for good measure, you’ll go to bed, your deed done, and wake up the next morning right back in the world. Maybe you think spilling our blood is the only way to right the ship. And you know what? I can’t even tell you you’re wrong. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday. ------ [TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Please—please— [click, static] Junior, if you—I’ll come to wherever you are right now if you get on the radio and tell me— [click, static] I found my Carhartt. I—I wasn't even looking for it, not really. I was getting some more supplies, at one of the last grocery stores in the area that we hadn’t completely depleted of non-perishables and in the parking lot there was— [click, static] I’m not there anymore, just in case you’re hearing this. But I’ll go back. I’ll go back right now and you can do whatever you want to me, just please tell me that she’s alive. There’s blood on the coat. A lot of it. Too much. And it still smells of cigarette smoke and the woods behind our house, but it smells of chamomile and turpentine too, and also iron, metallic and turning the fabric stiff, the entire right side of the jacket like tarp under my hands— If she’s—I mean, if she’s really—I don’t know what I’ll do— [click, static] I’ve felt no ill will toward you, Junior, even after you attacked me, but if you did anything to Harry I swear to god, I’ll— [click, static] I’ll— [click, static] Please just tell me she’s okay. [click, static] [beeps and then a tone that distorts the rest of the message] -.-- --- ..- .-.. .-.. / -... . / -. . -..- - / .. ..-. Youll be next ifSee Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] I don’t know what to do here. I don’t know how to find Harry, I don’t know what to do about Junior, I don’t know if any of this can be fixed. Can a timeline be corrected? Can we go back? Back to the real world, I mean, not back in time, though I guess… I actually have no idea if I would go back in time. I mean, of course, if I could undo what I did, I would but would that mean—it’s not like I want to go to prison. Then again, according to Harry, that was never going to happen. I’m still not sure I believe her. I’m still not sure it wasn’t a rotten situation all the way through. And would that alternative really have been better? [click, static] I don’t mean that, of course it would have been better. But, no matter what Harry says or thinks, we would have had to—she said only she would have had to— I don’t think I could have betrayed Pete and the guys like that. I don’t think— [click, static] Wait…if we’re not there…if Harry’s not there, that means she wouldn’t have—and without her, they could— [click, static] Holy shit, I’ve got to go to New York. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday. ------ [TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] What if he’d killed me? [click, static] I mean it, Harry. What if I hadn’t been fast enough, or what if he’d been able to truly catch me by surprise. What if he’d gotten the upper hand and he’d killed me? It isn’t…it isn’t hard. Or— well, it isn’t easy. But the gap between keeping the upper hand in a fight and the other person getting it is razor thin. The tables can turn in a millisecond. All it takes is one mistake, or moving the tiniest bit too slow, or slackening your grip by an inch. I know this. You know this. You watched it happen. I hadn’t even planned on—I didn’t have a grand escape plan. And I know you didn’t, you were so infuriatingly calm when they loaded us into that van and told us we were being transferred to god knows where. And of course now I know why you were calm, but at the time, I thought you were just trying to imagine you were somewhere else. But I wasn’t, I was stuck in the present, terrified of where we were headed, scared of how dark the world was around me, the further we got from civilization. I half thought we were being taken to the woods to be shot. But I still didn’t have a plan. It was just…when we got that flat tire and he had to open the back to get the spare, I saw a window and— Part of me thought it would be good just to run. Leave you behind and run into the pitch black forest. But I couldn’t— I couldn’t do that, especially not when you were shouting at me to stop, but I thought you were shouting at him, because he’d gotten his arm around my neck and I didn’t think that dragging him to the ground like that would’ve—I didn’t realize how close we were to the bumper, how little it takes to crack someone’s neck at just the wrong angle. [click, static] It wasn’t lucky. That’s not—it was terrible. But then it was done, just like that, and it could’ve happened just as quick with Junior at the house. Would you mourn me? We’re not in the same place anymore, no longer each other’s sole conversational companion, so would me being dead and gone make a difference to you? Would you think about all the things you never said, never did, and have regrets? Or would you be relieved that you didn’t have to think about any of it anymore. That you would never have to make the choice of how to behave toward me, ever again. I can’t think about the other side of this conversation. I find myself furious at imagining what your reaction would be to my death—to coming home and finding my body in the front hall—because I can’t bear to turn that question on myself. If you’re gone— [click, static] Junior…Billings, I don’t know what you would want me to call you. But, if you’re listening, I know what I want to ask. Not that you—you don’t owe me shit, obviously. I don’t know how long you’ve been listening to me, what you know about me, but I can’t imagine much—if any of it—has made you more sympathetic to me. But if I could ask for one thing, it would be to leave Harry out of this. If we meet again…I won’t hold it against you if you still want to kill me and succeed this time. But please. Please. She’s not the one you hate. She’s not to blame. I am. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday. ------ [TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Look. A lot…a lot has happened in the last few weeks. And I’m…well, I think I’ve found an okay place to stay safe for a few days, catch my breath, figure out what my next move is. A house that’s got some clothes that look like they might fit me, some canned goods, woods around it that should be good for setting up rabbit traps. Plus the gas stove still works, so I’m…well, I’m really cooking with gas. (a weak laugh) Sorry, I’m…I’m fucking tired. Setting Harry and Junior to the side for the moment—not like I ever really can do that, they’re on my mind constantly, a merry-go-round of thoughts and fears that never stops—but. Setting them to the side for a moment. I’ve been putting my thoughts in a row. Organizing the disparate threads of morse code messages and evidence and Asimov books and… I am somewhere else. We are. We are in a time of our own, separate from the world we knew. I killed Billings and we…branched off. I took Harry with me because she was there, Junior because it was his father I killed, and Leann because…the random rippling of chance. And if there was one ripple big enough to affect Leann, then that means there must be other people out there. I’m sure of it. But maybe they have no way of reaching me—maybe they’re not hearing me at all, even though it seems like my transmission radius is a lot bigger than it should be—and that’s a mystery I don’t feel particularly inclined to solve at the moment, bigger fish and all—maybe they’re just all spread out so much that the odds of us running into each other are vanishingly small. But there are others. I know that. And that’s enough for now. So. The photos. I’ve been looking at the Denver ones again and I had a thought…the weird watch, the slightly strange clothes…what if that’s— What if it’s 1975, but just…over there. What if that’s where the sounds come from too? A collision point of timelines, some overlap that bleeds through in sound and in polaroids, for some reason. And the reason that Junior didn’t show up in the photo I took is because he wasn’t standing there in normal 1975. Because he’s here. But the people in Denver were there, just…unreachable. The camera is a little window into the real world. I don’t know, it’s just a theory. But it’s got me wondering—why me? Why this choice? If time and space split every time someone accidentally killed someone— Well. Maybe that is what’s happening. Everyone in their own little pocket of punishment after making a choice. But we make thousands—tens of thousands—of choices every single day. What makes one choice more potent than another? Is there some preordained “correct” order of things we’re supposed to be following, just like Eternity? That’s really the ultimate question isn’t it—Birdie and Fox and what they both seem to know. The way they seem to be able to communicate with me no matter where I am. The way they only communicate through morse code. Are they…they’re not god, I refuse to believe that, but are they Eternity somehow? Are they…monitoring me, monitoring everything, to make sure things are just right? But if that’s the case, then what are we still doing here. Why hasn’t Andrew Harlan come and repaired what I did to put everything back in its place. It really does all sound like science fiction. Maybe it’s all true, maybe I’m right on the money, or maybe none of it is. And I’m not sure who I would believe if anyone told me which it was. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday. ------ [TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] I was going to—I was going to write him a note. And leave him the watch. That’s what I was doing when I was at the house. I was leaving a note for Harry, with instructions about the car and the radio, and I was also writing a note to Junior to say… Well. I hadn’t gotten very far yet. I started with “I’m sorry” but then I got stuck because just those two words looked so…hollow on the page. Incomplete. Insufficient. I’m sure he’d agree. The boy doesn’t know how to fight. Not that I—I mean, I sure as shit had never gotten into a fight before, but Don taught me some basic self defense. He was into that…kung fu stuff. Bruce Lee movies and all that. And he was always so worried about me walking through the city late at night which was sweet in its own way, but… Anyway. I’d never been in a fight, but I’d been in plenty of high stress situations, and had Don’s voice in my head, so I think I—I mean, I guess you don’t know how you’re going to react when you get into that kind of thing, but the fight instinct took over and I— Junior wasn’t operating off of fight instinct or staying focused under pressure. He was all rage. I’m not sure he had a plan on how to ki— If he did, it flew right out the window when he saw me because he just went for me without thinking twice. And the thing about being all rage…you can definitely land some body blows—and he did—but you’re vulnerable to distractions. You’re vulnerable to showing your weaknesses. And with his slight frame… I don’t think I hurt him too bad. I was careful this time. I guess having that one prior experience of fight or flight…I don’t know, I just wanted to get him off me and get out, and just thinking about that gave him enough opportunity to give me a black eye and bruised rib. I’m lucky. I know I am. But I’m—it’s the stupidest thing, I’m mad I didn’t get to finish my note. To Harry, sure, if she ever goes back there and if he didn’t destroy it— He probably destroyed it. That’s what I would do. If I were him. I’d make it impossible for me to find the one person who might be an ally, and I’d…I’d think about how can get a second swing at killing me. I am sorry. I know that’s not enough. I know that being apologetic about killing your father is the shittiest consolation prize anyone has ever received. But it’s true. And it’s what I have to offer. I don’t know if it makes a difference that I didn’t mean to. I don’t know if it matters that I just wanted to escape and that, for a split second, I thought I was going to die. I know you probably see me as some immoral criminal who destroyed your family, your future, your life. And… I’m not sure I have a defense against that, actually. I am a criminal and I did destroy your life. But I don’t like to think of myself as immoral. Am I…complicated? Yeah. Do I have, perhaps, a slightly different view of what’s acceptable than the average person? Sure. I made my living breaking the law, I’m not trying to argue for Citizen of the Year here. But I’m not a bad person. I’m not. I’d never hurt anyone before. Not ever. That’s not the kind of criminal I was. Hurt some property, some pocketbooks, but never a person. And what I did to your father has stuck with me every single day since it happened. It was the biggest thing to ever happen to me, and that’s before I knew that it…caused all of this. And that has to say something, right? I’ve spent the last…nearly seven years living in a world that was empty and apocalyptic, with no explanation as to why, and that still didn’t loom as large in my head as taking a man’s life. I’m not…I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m not asking for absolution. I’m… [click, static] I actually have no idea what I’m asking for. I’m not sure I’m even asking you to spare my life. I— I’m not sure. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] (sigh) So. I think I should probably explain some things. Again. I’m—if I sound different at all, it’s because I’m on a new CB. I tried to broadcast yesterday but I don’t think I was coming through at all—the radio kept spitting static back at me and it took me a second to figure out that something was wrong with the push-to-talk button. The mechanism inside kept slipping and— Anyway, this isn’t important or interesting. Other than to say…I’ve got a new radio. And a new car. And…no other supplies really. It’s like I’m starting from scratch again, like we did in ’68 and I’m— [click, static] I’m trying not to be scared by it—daunted, I’ll allow, but there’s no room to be afraid of the circumstances I find myself in. Not when everything else is so fucking terrifying. He— [click, static] I shouldn’t have been broadcasting from the house. Even for a few minutes, it was foolish. Arrogant and risky and— He found me. He walked through the door to the garage and he— There was a moment, when we just looked at each other. And I could see his father in his face. The same eyes, the same ghosts of dimples on his cheeks. Even more prominent than on Billings face, actually, with the way that Junior’s face is sunken. Like he’s been underfed for years. Which, I suppose, he probably has been. Especially if he’s been alone. I wanted to ask, wanted to say—something. There’s so much I want to say to him, so much I want to ask him, but we stared at each other for that brief moment and then, before I could even open my mouth, he was lunging at me. It is the same cologne. As his father. I wonder if he wears it because it reminds him— [click, static] Well, if there was any doubt that Junior wanted to kill me…I have my answer now. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] (a lot of static and cutting in and out) Breaker breaker, this is WAR1974 calling out for anyone on the line. [click, static] Does anyone read? [click, static] Does anyone read? [click, static] Can you hear me? Can anyone hear me? [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] I probably shouldn’t be doing this, but I’ll be quick, I promise. I came back to the house. I staked it out for a good three hours first, to be sure that no one else was here, but it’s clear that someone has been here. The house is torn apart since I was last here—I don’t know what Junior is looking for…maybe nothing. Maybe his father’s watch. Maybe he heard my broadcast the other day. Maybe he just wanted to break anything and everything in his path, just because he could. A lot of our supplies are gone too—I don’t know if Harry took some when she left or if he’s taken them, but I just hope they’re being used by someone. I’m still not sure how to feel about the whole Junior thing—I’m mostly trying to not think about it at all if I’m entirely honest—but I’d be happy to inadvertently be feeding him or helping him survive somehow. Mi casa es su casa, I guess. I’m not thrilled about my Carhartt jacket though—that seems to be missing as well. I’d been hoping to…I don’t know, I didn’t really pack all that many sentimental objects when I left but I wanted to—I don’t know. I liked that coat. And coming back here made me realize how much I missed— [click, static] Well, I fucking miss cigarettes that’s for sure. If I ever have a garden again, I wonder if I can figure out how to grow tobacco and roll my own. Though, at this point, with everything I’ve been dealing with, I might have to resort to smoking the seven year old packs lying around. Anyway, the jacket is gone. It wasn’t on its usual hook and I searched the whole house and its…gone. I’m assuming Junior didn’t take it, but I can’t remember if it was here last week when I came back to the house for the first time. Maybe Harry threw it out the day I left. Maybe she took it with her when— (scoffs) Probably not that. More likely she just tossed it. Or cut it up into scraps to line the chicken coop. I should get going, I think. It’s not good to linger. But I—well, I left Harry a note. On the off chance that she does come back here. It’s got the same info I’ve said on the radio, with a new meeting place in case… Well, in case. I also—well, I wrote—I know he probably wouldn’t want to hear what I have to say, so maybe I’ll just keep it and— [click, static] (sigh) I don’t know. I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know if there’s anything I should be taking with me from the house. Any other bits of sentiment, any remaining supplies. I have this feeling…I don’t think I’ll ever be back here after this. I think— [a creak of the door opening behind her] (gasps) Wh— [click, static] See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Harry, if you can hear this, I’ve fixed up another car for you. It should run just fine, and there’s two canisters of fuel in the trunk, so you shouldn’t have to siphon any of your own for a while. There’s also a radio hooked up in it. So… Well, that’s sort of pointless isn’t it? I put the radio in there in case you haven’t found another working one, but in order for you to find this one, you’d have to have a working radio to hear this message. It took me the better part of two days to put it all together and get it to where I thought you might find it. It’s near where we used to go to get firewood. Not that far from the house, but far enough I think it’d be a pain for Junior to find, especially considering all the other cars that are in that area. And it’s—I made a point to find a car that was your favorite color, to make it easier to find and also in the hopes that…I don’t know, maybe you’ll happen to walk past where I've left it and you’ll see it and some instinct will tell you to see if it works and— [click, static] I’m grasping at straws, I know I am. I’ve been searching all over, every single day and I don’t see any sign of you. There have been a few times where I thought I heard another car, but I have a feeling that probably belongs to Junior. I was too afraid to follow the sound and double check. Every time, I just go in the opposite direction. There’s one other thing I’m going to try, but it’s a long shot too. But what else am I supposed to do? I can’t stop trying. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Okay, even if Harry— Well, I’m still alive and with what is looking like a pretty serious situation on my hands. Junior is clearly here because of me. And if Harry ran from the house because he showed up, then she must have been thinking the same thing I’m thinking which is that he wasn’t dropping by for a cup of tea. What does he want? What would I want if I were him? I’d want back to the real world. I’d want my dad back. I want to punish those who took him from me in the first place. You know, even after all the “you are the stone” business I still thought…maybe this wasn’t me. Maybe it’s the choice that Harry made, the one she kept from me for six years, that broke us off into some alternate version of the future. After all, she's the one who—and if she’d just told me then then maybe I wouldn’t have— [click, static] I guess it doesn’t really matter. Because it really was me, wasn’t it? This was all my fault. It wouldn’t be him—it wouldn’t be Billings son who’s here if this was all about what Harry did. I have to assume the worst, I think. Both about what Junior—god, I guess I am just calling him that now—wants and about…about Harry. I think I’m going to— [click, static] Fuck, I guess I really can’t talk about that shit on here, can I? I can’t work through my problems or plans out loud, at least not before I’ve done them. I never could have expected that would be so lonely. To keep my thoughts to myself. But it is. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] It isn’t…it isn’t Billings. Fox was right. Or at least— [click, static] I should explain. I don’t know for who’s benefit but… I went back to the house this morning. I didn’t— I didn’t go in or anything, I…well, I staked it out. I know the woods around the house like the back of my hand, felt fairly confident that I could stay out of sight and see if anyone was going in and out. See if Harry had come back. She hasn’t, as far as I can tell, but he’s still hovering around. He drove up in a shitty old VW that sounded like it was gasping for breath and went inside for…fifteen minutes? And then he left again. Doing what I’m thinking is probably a daily check. To see if anyone has shown up. To see if there’s been any change. God am I glad I had the common sense not to broadcast that I was going back today. I don’t think he saw me. Though I’m not sure what would have happened if he had. I got a good look at him and it wasn’t… The weird thing is that it did look a little like Billings. Same blond hair, same light eyes—I was too far away to really get a sense of the color, but it’s such a sunny day and his eyes were kind of…glowing in that way that blue or green eyes do when the sun is shining in them. Harry’s eyes do that. But he was—he wasn’t an average sized forty something guy. He’s…slight build. Reedy like he doesn’t eat very much. Maybe a little on the shorter side. Felt like I could snap him in half just looking at him. And he’s…young. Early twenties I’d guess? If that? Still had some baby fat around his cheeks, but I thought I could see some dimples too. Or the hint of them, just like… Am I dealing with some kind of time travel? Is this the young Billings, traveled…forward in time to prevent something that’s already happened? It makes no sense. I know that I haven’t traveled back in time, because I’ve read just about every single newspaper from 1968 that I could get my hands on, just to have something to do. I took a photo. So that I could look at it later, see if I could remember anything else about Billings, if he had a mole or a scar that would give him away. Or else see if I could recognize whoever this person is. Except the picture—I mean, I took it from far away but I could see him through the viewfinder, I should be able to see him in the photo too. But instead there’s just…nothing where he should be standing. It’s more evidence that, for whatever reason, photos are showing me something I can’t otherwise see. People that aren’t there; empty space where there shouldn’t be. That mystery will have to wait. I have to go meet Harry. God willing. [click, static] [beeps] Junior .--- ..- -. .. --- .-.See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] What do you mean it’s not him? I was so certain—I mean, of course I knew there was a possibility that it was someone else, just wearing the same cologne, but why would Harry leave, why would the back door be broken? Why would my flight or fight instinct have kicked in so hard the moment I felt his presence in the house? I guess I’ll— [click, static] Well, I guess I shouldn’t say what I’m thinking, what I’m planning on here. I guess I should just do it. Because on the off chance you’re lying to me, I don’t want to give— [click, static] Fuck, Harry, where are you? Please, let me know that you’re okay. Somehow. Send up a flare or go back to the house or— Actually, don’t do either of those. And I can’t tell you where I am, not on a public channel. I’m not sure you can even hear this. If you do have a radio, maybe you can hear this but not respond, or not broadcast far enough to reach me. I just have to hope that’s the case. You know that place that we went once in the spring of…’71? ’72? I can’t remember, they all blur together after a certain point. But that day stands out shining gold from all the rest. It was a really good day. The first crop of strawberries had come early, and you made shortcake and you let me drive us all the way to…well, to that town we picked up bottles of champagne in, which I’m not going to say the name of because then we found that place, where we had the picnic. Strawberry shortcake and champagne for lunch…we got a little drunk. Just tipsy really, on the champagne and the perfect sunny day we had, unseasonably warm. And we didn’t argue for a whole afternoon. Well, that’s not true, we argued about everything, but it was…they were arguments that didn’t matter. You tried to convince me that Rothko is one of the greatest painters of the twentieth century and I told you I just didn’t get it. You got so red in the face—because of the sun, because of the champagne, because of how impassioned you were describing his style to me, explaining what was so revolutionary about it. I tried to poke holes in it all, telling you it was just big blocks of color, that all his stuff looked like someone trying to decide what color to paint their living room and gave up halfway through. (laughs) You hated that. But anytime I said anything particularly offensive to you, you would push on my shoulder with your palm and the more we had to drink, the more you let your hand linger, tracing your fingertips down my bare arm whenever you pulled back. So I couldn't exactly tell you the truth—that I like Rothko. That I didn’t agree with a word I was saying. That maybe I did, at one point in time, but you’d been telling me about his art for so long that I’d started to see it differently, that I’d gone to an exhibit of his art once without you, just to try and understand what you saw, try and understand you. That I had your voice in my head the whole time, pointing out everything special in the paintings and that that made me love him. That the way you see art, the way you see the world, made me love a lot of things. If I’d told you that, you would’ve stopped pushing me. So instead I pulled your pigtails like we were kids on the playground. And you pulled right back, teasing me about my music taste, saying you could take the girl out of the country but you couldn’t take the country out of the girl. And I know you’ve never liked that kind of stuff, but you still got me to recite all the lyrics to “I’m so Lonesome I Could Cry” and then you made me sing them, even though you know I’ve got a shit voice and you leaned your head on my shoulder as I sang and I think…I think you liked the song. I think you liked something. [click, static] Meet me there. In that place where we had that picnic. In the hour before the sun sets. On Friday. That will hopefully give you enough time to get there from…wherever the hell you are. Just…come find me. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] I moved again. I’m torn between thinking it would be good to find a place to bunker down until I can figure out what’s going on, or find Harry, and thinking I should just keep moving, never stop driving. Except driving definitely draws attention—he could hear the sound of the engine from…who knows how far away, now that the world is as quiet as it is. I know I should just get the hell out of dodge and leave Pennsylvania entirely. And I’m not saying I haven’t, I could be as far as Vermont or Tennessee or Indiana by now. But—I mean— Harry. I can’t just give up on her. If she doesn’t have a car then she can’t have gotten far. But of course, when the whole world is a hiding place, even a small area is like looking for a needle in a haystack. So I just keep moving. Hoping I’ll see some sign of life. And I guess I’m hiding too. There’s no other word for it really. All that time on the open road, doing whatever I wanted, broadcasting all the time, I got so used to being unfettered. Especially after so many years trapped within the four walls of a house for all intents and purposes. But now, he could be around any corner. Driving down the road, my eyes are peeled not for anything out of place, anything that might point to someone out there, but for danger. Human danger. And talking like this, now, feels foolishly dangerous. Maybe he can follow the signal, maybe I’ll slip up and say something that gives away where I am. But what other choice do I have? If I’m going to find Harry, if I’m going to get any kind of explanation from Birdie or Fox, I can’t give this up. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking if he can hear this. Is that how he found the house in the first place? Because he heard my broadcasts, heard me talking about Pennsylvania and Harry and thought… He shouldn’t have anything against Harry. Not really. I’m the one who— Part of me thinks I should just let him do whatever it is he wants. That that will somehow…set things right again. That it will set me free, set Harry free. Even if I think my freedom would come in the form of death. Maybe that would be worth it, to send Harry back to wherever it is she really belongs. She shouldn’t have to live with the consequences of my actions, even though I’m living with the consequences of hers. But me and him? Our fates are too intertwined to be untangled. [click, static] [beeps] Not him -. --- - / .... .. --See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Okay, sorry, I— I had to move. I thought I heard… (a dark laugh) It’s just like the early days again. Jumping at every sound, looking over my shoulder. Except at least then I had Harry and now she— [click, static] I have to think she ran. I have to think that wasn’t his first time in the house and that she ran. Because the alternative—she’s dead and buried already, he’s abducted her…is that what this is? He took Harry already and he came back for me because we’re just rats trapped in a maze laid out for one dead man’s revenge? All that shit about Eternity and stones and ripples and this really is just purgatory after all. Fox said I didn’t destroy the future. Just my future. You can’t put emphasis in morse code but I think I got it anyway. I don’t even know his first name. Billings. That’s the only name I have for him. I only heard it once or twice from the other guards as we were being loaded into the transport. He had green eyes, blond hair. He had a kind of crooked tooth in the front of his mouth and the fairest hint of dimples on his cheeks—I’ve spent so much time thinking about how he probably had a really sweet smile. He was older. Mid-forties, maybe? He wasn’t a small guy, but wasn’t all that tall either—I guess he was the epitome of average height and build. I think about that a lot too. How even though I’m tall and pretty hale and hearty even before I spent six years chopping wood and fixing holes in our roof, I’m still…well, a male prison guard my same height in the prime of his life probably would’ve been able to… I don’t know. Maybe what happened would have always happened. Maybe his middle age didn’t make him slower, or weaker, and I always would’ve— [click, static] Yeah, I can’t do this. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Alright, okay, I’m thinking I should maybe explain some things. [click, static] Though you’d think by this point I’d earned some explanations of my own, but then again I guess I have the advantage of speaking in words, not dits and dahs. But I did say I’d happily sit by the radio for hours and translate whatever you wanted to send me, so if you do have explanations to give… I’m not sure who I’m even addressing this to at this point. I’m…I’m safe. For now, at least. I won’t say where I am, obviously. Not when this transmission might be heard by— [click, static] It doesn’t make any fucking sense. But maybe it’s the only thing that does make sense. The man, in the house—god, he might still be there, he— I recognized his cologne. And it could be—I mean, it could be anyone, right, for all I know it’s the most common cologne there is but… I’m the stone. I caused the ripple. I killed a man who was just doing his job and, in doing so, destroyed the future. And somehow, that man broke into my house. [click, static] [beeps] Not the future. Your future -. --- - / - .... . / ..-. ..- - ..- .-. . .-.-.- / -.-- --- ..- .-. / ..-. ..- - ..- .-. .See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday. ------ [TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] (whispering) Someone…someone’s here. [click, static] It’s not Harry, I know Harry’s footsteps, I know the shape of her shadow, and this is not her. I don’t… [click, static] I’m in my closet. They’re—whoever they are—they’re still moving around the house, quiet and slow, like they’re… (a hushed laugh) Well, it’s like they’re casing the place. They’re moving like I used to back when I was robbing penthouse apartments. And maybe—I mean, I had the thought that maybe it was Pete or something, but— I mean, it’s a person. Even if my instinct to waking up to someone moving through the house like they didn’t want to be heard was to hide, it’s still a goddamn person. There is someone else in this world and they’re alive. And I was about to risk it, was about to go out there and see who it is and introduce myself but the closer I got to my bedroom door… I caught a whiff of something. A—a cologne or a…I don’t know, but it…my stomach fell to the floor. Because I know that smell, it’s burned in my brain for the rest of my life but there’s no way— [click, static] Except if I’m right…then I’m in danger. If I’m right, then whatever is going on with Harry might be a lot worse than I thought. I need to get out of here. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday. ------ [TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] You’re not anywhere. I checked everywhere I could think, I had my radio on the whole time and you’re not… I don’t know what to do, Harry. There’s no sign of you. I don’t know how to fix this. I did fix up the back door hinge just now and taking a closer look…this hinge has always been a problem, I mean I should’ve just replaced it years ago but I think it would’ve required refitting the doorframe, because I’m pretty sure it’s a problem with the wood, not the hinge itself, but, well. It’s not loose in the way that it has been before. It…the wood around it is splintered. And I checked the other hinges too and the wood around them looks…stressed. Like the door was forced. Did something happen here? Nothing really looks out of place, there’s no sign of a struggle but… God, what am I doing? Trying to be some kind of amateur sleuth and read a crime scene where there is none. The back door is old as shit. Maybe you had your hands full coming inside and pushed it a little too hard. Who knows. But then again, what else am I supposed to think? There’s something wrong here and I know it’s only been a few days but if you’re not here then maybe I really did imagine you and— [click, static] At least all the power in here still works, so I’m going to hook up my CB in my bedroom and keep it on all night. Just…tell me you’re okay. Tell me where you are. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday. ------ [TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Okay, I am officially concerned. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before, but the truck was’t in the drive like usual so I just assumed… I should have checked the whole house. But I’m so used to never coming into the garage because I know how much you hate your studio being disturbed but when I woke up this morning and you still weren’t home, well, I went in anyway and the truck is still here. In the garage. It’s running fine—that’s where I’m broadcasting from right now, though obviously I turned the engine off. And I have to say, I’m impressed that you were actually listening when I told you to bring it inside for the winter if you weren’t going to be driving it much. But if you’re not out there driving this truck on a supply run, where are you? I—I took the other car. Which, I’m sorry to say, is now somewhere in California, having been put out to pasture. But unless you finally decided to take an interest in car mechanics after all this time, I don’t know how else you’d be getting around. I know you love your walks—or, you did, eventually, once you got past the worst of the paranoia, but…you never went on a walk this long. If you’re—if you’re dead in a ditch somewhere, I’m going to be fucking furious, Harry. [click, static] It’s…weird. Being in here. It feels like being inside your head somehow. It’s a goddamn mess, which I didn’t really expect. I’m sure you’ve got your own system—though who the hell knows—but I definitely can’t make sense of it. I’m glad to see you pulled the radio in here though. Maybe you did hear some of my transmissions after all. Is that why you’re not here? Because you heard me say I was coming and you didn’t want to see me? You’ve enjoyed your life without me so much that you couldn’t bear to have your peace shattered. Except…you’ve been thinking about me. I know you have. And maybe this is why you never wanted me to be in your studio in the first place. There’s…a lot of me in here. Paintings, sketches…not all of my face always but you must have known that I’d recognize the curve of my own ear, the shape of my hands. Have—have you been doing this all along? Or just since I left? Were you always coming in here and spending hours perfecting the color of my hair when some days you wouldn’t even speak to me— [click, static] Is this why you asked for the stories behind all my scars? So you could render them in perfect detail, knowing exactly what made them and when? I thought you wanted to know more about me, but maybe it was just an avenue for your art, one of the few subjects that you had access to, too tired of painting birds or trees or images from your own mind. Or did you ask because you wanted to know? You talked once, about how painting helped you understand the world, or yourself; how that was one of the things you loved about it, one of the reasons you started painting in the first place. Because when nothing else made sense, charcoal and oil and your own hands were able to bring shape to the world. Were you trying to understand me? Or were you trying to understand what you felt about me? Or was guilt swallowing it all up that you couldn’t uncover anything else. I just…I need you to come back and explain what this is all about. Because in a room full of canvases and color and stray sketch pages, I keep turning and seeing my own face. I’m everywhere. [click, static] There’s a lot of other art too, of course. And it’s all…it’s fucking beautiful. Your art has always been so beautiful. I…I’ve added to your collection. I picked up a painting when I was in Santa Fe, something that I thought was pretty and that I thought you might— Well, I’ve left it in here. In case you want to do anything with it. It’s yours. There are also—well. I wrote you some postcards. But I obviously had no way of sending them to you so I just…held onto them. But you might as well have them now. I don’t know why I’m saying all of this on the radio like I can’t say it to you face to face. You’ll be back and you’ll probably be annoyed that I left stuff in your studio without asking. There’s no need for me to leave anything for you, not when I can just hand it to you. But I just have this feeling… I’m going to look for you tomorrow. Drive to the usual spots, take a walk in the woods behind the house. And because I’m fucking considerate, I’m going to leave a note. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Hey Harry? Where are you? [click, static] You could have at least left a note. Something to let me know that you’re okay, that you’re not de— [click, static] What happened? When did you leave? Maybe if it was June, I’d be able to look at your garden and figure out just how long its been since you last tended to it, but you’d only just be putting new seeds in the ground now and I’m not going to go digging up your garden if you’re just out at the store. That’s…that must be it. You ran out of canned goods and you had to go looking for more. And I bet you’ve had to go a bit of a ways away considering we’ve cleaned out everything in a thirty mile radius. Right, so…I’m not going to freak out. Yet. I only got here twenty minutes ago, I’m sure it’ll be… It’s strange, being back. Everything looks pretty much the same—though I did notice the back door has come loose at the top hinge again. You know, I’m sure that’s something you could figure out how to fix on your own. It’s not hard. (sigh) But I guess I’ll go ahead and fix it again. I might as well, I’m here. I didn’t expect the smell of this place to hit me so hard. When you’re in a space so long, you stop noticing the sensory aspects of it—the smells, the sounds, the way the light shifts throughout the day, throughout the seasons. All things I didn’t know to miss. But now that I’m confronted with them again, I realize just how much… Lavender and chamomile, with an underlying layer of turpentine. That’s the smell. Harry got into making her own soap a few years ago. Anytime I happened to get a whiff of one of those flowers on the road, I’d— It’s different. In context, it’s different. Knowing the origin ot… Despite everything, despite all the shit you’ve done and my own foolish fucking heart, I think I— Yeah, I’m looking forward to seeing you, Harry. At the very least, I’m looking forward to seeing the look of complete surprise on your face when you walk through the front door and see me. [click, static] [click, static] Hey Harry? Where are you? [click, static] You could have at least left a note. Something to let me know that you’re okay, that you’re not de— [click, static] What happened? When did you leave? Maybe if it was June, I’d be able to look at your garden and figure out just how long its been since you last tended to it, but you’d only just be putting new seeds in the ground now and I’m not going to go digging up your garden if you’re just out at the store. That’s…that must be it. You ran out of canned goods and you had to go looking for more. And I bet you’ve had to go a bit of a ways away considering we’ve cleaned out everything in a thirty mile radius. Right, so…I’m not going to freak out. Yet. I only got here twenty minutes ago, I’m sure it’ll be… It’s strange, being back. Everything looks pretty much the same—though I did notice the back door has come loose at the top hinge again. You know, I’m sure that’s something you could figure out how to fix on your own. It’s not hard. (sigh) But I guess I’ll go ahead and fix it again. I might as well, I’m here. I didn’t expect the smell of this place to hit me so hard. When you’re in a space so long, you stop noticing the sensory aspects of it—the smells, the sounds, the way the light shifts throughout the day, throughout the seasons. All things I didn’t know to miss. But now that I’m confronted with them again, I realize just how much… Lavender and chamomile, with an underlying layer of turpentine. That’s the smell. Harry got into making her own soap a few years ago. Anytime I happened to get a whiff of one of those flowers on the road, I’d— It’s different. In context, it’s different. Knowing the origin ot… Despite everything, despite all the shit you’ve done and my own foolish fucking heart, I think I— Yeah, I’m looking forward to seeing you, Harry. At the very least, I’m looking forward to seeing the look of complete surprise on your face when you walk through the front door and see me. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Harry? [click, static] Harry, do you read? [click, static] Okay, that’s…good. I don’t know that I want her to hear this. But I feel like I need to say it out loud or I’ll go crazy keeping it in. I’m nervous. I—I pulled over because I turned onto a road that I’ve driven down a million times before on supply runs and it was the most familiar thing I’ve seen in nine months and all of a sudden it got so real. My heart started pounding, my palms were sweating on the steering wheel… [click, static] (laughing) I’m just nervous! It’s stupid, it’s not like—I mean, I know what to expect. I’m going to walk into the house and call out for Harry and she’s not going to respond because she won’t be able to hear me from the garage and then I’ll put the kettle on and she’ll only come in from her studio when she hears the whistle go, which for some reason is audible from the garage. And I’ll pull two mugs down from the cabinet and make tea the way we like it—black for me, steeped for two minutes; two sugars and steeped until it’s bitter for her—and Harry will pull out some kind of muffin or scone or something from somewhere and pretend like she didn’t put nuts in it specifically because I like them and then…I don’t know, then she’ll make some comment about how I’m back so soon and I’ll… I don’t know what I’ll do. Maybe she’ll ask if me being back means I forgive her and maybe I’ll say that I’m not sure I need to forgive her before we can— [click, static] Or none of that will happen. And instead she’ll be unpleasantly surprised that I’ve come back and she’ll ask me to leave. She’ll say that I’m not welcome anymore, that I resigned my right to call that place home the moment I pulled out of the drive. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Well, welcome back to the fucking party, Birdie. Once again, telling me that a place isn’t safe. Do you really think that I’m going to trust you? Do you really think I’m going to listen to whatever you have to say? Where the fuck have you been? I don’t know if you know this, but I’ve been talking to someone else—also through morse code, so maybe you know them but they…well, they have been at least a little more helpful than you. And now you’re telling me that it’s not safe back home? Why would I believe you? I went to Denver and there was nothing there. Just ghosts in photographs and phantom concerts. And if you are telling the truth, and it’s not safe? Well, then, I have to go back, don’t I. I have to make sure that Harry’s okay. Anyway. I’m only about forty miles from the house so…Harry, if you can hear me…put the kettle on, bring out that one bottle of whiskey you’ve been hiding for three years. We’ve got a lot to talk about. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Okay, so, I’ve been marinating on all of it, the book, the messages from Fox, what Birdie told me all those months ago. And something is starting to crystallize. Eternity’s whole purpose was to make the smallest possible change in order to preserve the one future they wanted. Nöys and her people could also time travel but they allowed for multiple futures. And her forcing Harlan to choose between killing her and saving Eternity fundamentally changes the future and destroys this patriarchal system of reality control and…well, I guess in that sense, Nöys is the hero of the book. She allows for there to be freedom in the way that reality unfolds. So, maybe Asimov was trying to say something positive with that even if a lot of the ways Harlan thinks and speaks about women is… …not the point. The point is…Nöys is a stone. So is Harlan. They’re these individual people who create these ripples that radiate outwards and affect everything. I…it really is an inventive story. Maybe not entirely my cup of tea, but I don’t think I could have come up with it. I might be living it and I wouldn’t have thought of that kind of intricate world. Even now, I’m not totally sure I understand it. At least not as it pertains to me. Harlan betrays his job because of his love for Nöys. Birdie said they betrayed their job. That they hurt people. Fox seems to know things about this place, this time…whatever it is, that you wouldn’t know unless you were… Look, Fox, if you’re trying to tell me that Eternity is real and that you’re somehow moving the pieces on the chessboard of reality and that’s why I’m stuck here…I don’t know if I buy that. I have a hard time with omnipotence. But…my life is what it is and maybe a little science fiction is not out of order. Maybe…maybe the choice I made did create some kind of hidden century, maybe it did…end the future. But I—I don’t know if I can handle that if it’s true. [click, static] (sigh) God, I’m tired. I should get back to the house by the end of tomorrow. Hopefully Harry will be able to put these puzzle pieces together better than I can. [click, static] [beeps] Do not go back. Not safe. -.. --- / -. --- - / --. --- / -... .- -.-. -.- .-.-.- / -. --- - / ... .- ..-. . .-.-.-See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Okay, so I’ve been reading this fucking book, The End of Eternity by Isaac Asimov and I finally finished it … Listen, it’s not really my thing. Not that sci-fi isn’t my thing, but I’m not sure this kind of sci-fi is up my alley. And why are male writers so weird about women so often? That’s not the point. The point is…I assume you’re trying to tell me something with this. That you’re trying to say that this somehow holds the answers. I’m going to assume also that it doesn’t hold all the answers. That it’s more of a…nudge in the right direction. A shorthand for you to use to try and easily explain complicated shit to me. You know, you’d think Birdie would’ve been able to figure something out like this, right? Presumably they’ve also read books. Anyway. The End of Eternity. It’s about time travel. Or, well, not time travel, but—actually, there is literal time travel, in these things called kettles but it’s not time travel the way we think about time travel, you know, it’s— Let me start over. There’s this guy, Andrew Harlan, he’s the main character, and he works for this god-like organization called “Eternity” that basically…alters reality to make humans suffer less. But they can only go back in time so far because the technology to go upwhen and downwhen—that’s what they call going up and down the…timeline, I guess, which I think is sort of cute actually—so, yeah, they can only go back in time so far because that technology was only invented in the 27th century, and they can only go so far forward because after a certain point, the world is just…empty. And they don’t really know why. So, yeah. There’s that. And Harlan brings Nöys—that’s this woman that he falls in love with when he’s in a certain time and that time is supposed to be altered, so she’s going to disappear—or, the version he knows of her is going to disappear, she’s going to change because of the way that Eternity is going to alter reality and he’s you know, falling in love with her and he doesn’t want her to change so he brings her on a kettle to one of those empty centuries to hide her from Eternity and keep her safe, keep her trapped in amber. Which…well, listen, I have a lot of thoughts about that, but I’m not here to get into what Asimov is saying about women or being in love or any of that. I’m here to try to understand what the hell you want me to get out of this. I haven’t time traveled. I’m not in some kind of far, distant future after humanity has ceased to exist, because everything’s the same, just minus all the people. If I’m living in the Hidden Centuries, why do they look the same and how did I get here? At the end of the book…well, it turns out that Nöys isn’t exactly who she said she was, surprise surprise, and she and Harlan have this stand-off. She’s from a version of time that also had time travel, but not Eternity, so they had lots of different futures instead of just the one that Eternity would always be making by altering reality. That’s Eternity’s big thing—that’s what people like Harlan would do. They would go to different times and do different things so that Eternity could perfectly shape the history and the future of the world in the way they thought it should be shaped. But Nöys…her time didn’t do that—they came about the technology a different way and saw things differently. And she tries to convince Harlan that that’s the better way to do things and I guess he does get convinced because all of a sudden, something in reality changes and the kettles disappear, so it turns out that Eternity never happened—oh, they have this stand-off in the 30s—the 1930s—somehow, so it’s before Eternity is invented and Harlan choosing not to kill Nöys in the 1930s prevents the future from ever happening and so Eternity isn’t created. I think. And the book closes with “the end of eternity, the beginning of infinity” which is a nice sounding phrase, but I’m not sure it means anything. I’m not sure any of this means anything. Trying to explain it out loud, I feel like a total crackpot. What, exactly, am I supposed to be gleaning from all of this? [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Alright, I’ve mapped out a route back home—back to Pennsylvania and I think it’ll take me…four days? At most? It’s pretty snowy up here, I wish I were taking the southern route, so I don’t want to push it too much. A few days is not going to make a world of difference, but me spinning out on black ice and wrapping the car around a tree will. [click, static] I don’t know…I don’t know what I’m going to say to her to be honest. Because as far as I know, the last eight months for her have been business as usual. And probably particularly uneventful in the last few months. There’s never anything to fucking do in winter. She will have stashed up enough produce for the winter, just like Leann did, and it’ll be too much for her to eat, just like it was for Leann. So used to growing food for two people, and now needing to feed only one. But god, I hope she didn’t just subsist on veggies and bread. Or maybe that’s enough, maybe she’ll be fine eating like that. Maybe she went scavenging for canned food. Maybe she finally taught herself how to butcher the chickens. Well, I guess she knows how, I told her how, I showed her how, she just never wanted to. Always my job to get my hands dirty I guess. [click, static] I wonder how close to Pennsylvania I’ll have to get before she starts being able to hear my transmissions. Before I start being able to hear hers. The fact that she reached me, once, all the way in Wyoming…well, that had to have just been skip. Unless she’s figured out something I haven’t, which isn’t impossible, but… I guess it won’t really matter. I don’t need to tell her that I’m coming, I don’t need to check if she’s still there. She’s still there. She is. She has to be. [click, static] See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] I feel…hungover. It feels like my brain has been spinning nonstop and reading this fucking book— My thoughts can’t land on any one idea, I’m taking in too much information and spitting too many theories out that it’s all becoming mush and I’m not sure anything I’ve said on here has made sense in weeks and I—I don’t want to be doing this fucking alone anymore! [click, static] There. I said it. I don’t want to be doing this alone. It’s—it’s too much. Even if I’m the one responsible for all of it, if I’m the one who has to carry the burden of the horrible truth that I discover at the end of all this…I don’t want to hunt for that truth by myself anymore. I—I could go searching for other people that I think might still be here. Based on the ripple I caused. But that’s…it feels potentially extremely fruitless. And I know that Harry is here. I don’t know if she’ll be happy to see me, if she’ll even be at our house anymore, but I… I know she wants answers just as much as I do. I have to go back. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday. ------ [TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] “F not here” — I assume by F, you mean Francis. And not that I’m going to take your word for it, but it’s…it’s interesting. That you should say that. That you should know that. I think maybe I’m starting to understand. Well, maybe not understand, but I…I’m beginning to form a theory. Maybe. So, there’s a pond. The pond is quiet, maybe has some ripples in it from what’s swimming underneath the surface, or the wind, the rain—the normal stuff that a pond experiences. And all those things create some kind of…chain reaction. But again, it’s the usual things—a frog dies, a tadpole grows legs, algae blooms, whatever. But if you throw a huge boulder into that pond, everything goes fucking bananas. It kills a duck or displaces so much water that fish drown on dry land and then… You have an empty pond? You have a series of smaller ponds? The water evaporates? I don’t know where to go from there. But if Harry, Leann, and I are all fish that got thrown into another pond by the water splashing around the boulder then… [click, static] (frustrated sigh) I’m not sure that that’s anything. I wish there was…I don’t know, a book I could read, a scientific journal, something. I’m going to go into the next library I find and see what I can dredge up. Because this all feels vastly beyond my comprehension. I—it occurred to me…well, am I a terrible person for thinking of my art fence before thinking of Martha? It’s not that I didn’t care about her—sure, we were never committed, but I cared. I think I’ve just been hoping that I wasn’t important in her life to really have an impact. She was this bright, uncomplicated spot in a pretty messy life and I hope…I hope she stayed that way. I hope we were both a refuge for each other, an escape from our real worlds. And that, because of that, the mistakes of my real world didn’t shake hers. [click, static] [beeps] .- ... .. -- --- ...- / . -. -.. / --- ..-. / . - . .-. -. .. - -.-- Asimov End of EternitySee Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] I didn’t—I guess I’m not totally numb to everything. I didn’t mean to…go on like that yesterday. I—(sigh) if anyone is listening, maybe just ignore everything I’ve said this week. It’s not—I didn’t mean anything by it. Let’s just—let’s move on. [click, static] It’s only been, what, a handful of weeks since I left Los Angeles? But I find myself needing to lay out the same stuff that I tried to understand when I was there—what I know, what I don’t know, and what questions I have. I guess I have a little more information now, though god only knows what I’m supposed to do with it. I’m trying to wrap my head around how I could cause such a ripple but… (laughs) There is something so… I got out. I fought and clawed my way out of imprisonment, I got Harry out too, and we were free. I’m not saying that we didn’t deserve to be held responsible for our crimes but… Actually, fuck that. What we did—stealing art, jewelry, antiques—who cares? I mean, sure, the people who owned the stuff cared, but they were wealthy enough to buy more. But because those people were powerful, we got— Well, joke’s on us, huh? It’s clear that we’re getting our due anyway. From the frying pan into the fire. The grand irony of the universe. Like a cartoon, dodging the anvil falling from the sky only to go careening off a cliff. All of that. The choices I made. What I did. It was supposed to get me out, but it just…it never stops. The waters never calm and I’m—I’m going to drown. If this really is—I mean, if Leann was the farthest edge of the pond, to continue to beat this metaphor into the ground, then Harry would be the water right where the stone hit, right? It makes sense, I dragged her right along with me, just like she dragged me along unknowingly with her choices. But it clearly didn’t stop there. So who’s between Harry and Leann? Who’s lives did I touch? Who was I intertwined with enough to truly affect their life? Is it sad that the first thought I had was about my landlord? That’s a pretty direct effect, right? I disappear, I stop paying my rent and things snowball from there. But then I thought, well, I was going to prison anyway, so it’s not like I was going to keep paying rent either way. [click, static] Is that…is that the difference? I—I did something, caused a ripple, and it… [click, static] (shaking it off) But where’s Pete? Don? Francis? We all got caught for the same thing—well, not Francis—but I… Well, shit, I didn’t go up to Provincetown, did I? I never really thought there was a chance he was there. Is that—is that where I should head to? See if Francis was hit by the ripple? I mean, he would be old, but that doesn’t mean… God, I don’t want to find his body. I—I’m not sure I could take it. But what choice do I have? [click, static] [beeps] ..-. / -. --- - / .... . .-. . F not hereSee Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Except, if I were dead, how does that explain Harry? I obviously have some…guilt over what I did that I think would factor into my brain making up a weird purgatory of no people and mysterious, possibly all-knowing beeps on the radio that feel like they’re taunting me more than they’re helping me. But, even if I didn’t spend my life thinking there was an afterlife, I could see my subconscious deciding that the best way to process what was happening was to justify my death somehow through creating a punishment. Because, let’s be honest, if I’m dead, I know how. I know why. What I did—what I was trying to do in this case, in this case—that failed and I didn’t make it out and deep down I decide that “hey, this is probably for the best, because here’s what would happen if you did succeed, do you really want to live like that? But even if all of that was true...I don't know that my brain could resist giving me something I did want. Someone I want. Harry seems real to me. Annoyingly so. Real and exactly who she’s always been to me. No substantial change, despite everything we’ve been through. And I’m not sure I’d punish myself that much. Maybe I just don’t want to believe I would. So if not dead…then what? We’re back to square one, which is me as the stone, setting a ripple around the world that destroyed nearly everything. [click, static] I’m not sure I should be so cavalier about this stuff. Talking about my own death, my own final gasping breaths of life. But ever since finding Leann, there’s a sense of unreality that I can’t get over. I’m sure there’s a real name for it, something a psychiatrist would immediately be able to identify, but I never did see a shrink back in the world. Because I mostly didn’t have to deal with shit like this. But I’m outside my body. Outside everything. And I want to figure out what this all means, find the truth, the answers that I’ve been wanting for so long and also….it feels almost inconsequential now. Like nothing I uncover or grow to understand will actually change anything. I’ll still be alone in the world. I’ll still have done what I did. Harry will still have betrayed me. And I’ll still be in— [click, static] It’s not like learning certain things changed anything. Knowledge can’t kill love. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Okay, alright, sorry, I think I had a mental breakdown yesterday. Um, another mental breakdown. Maybe this is all some kind of prolonged breakdown and I’m actually sitting in a padded room somewhere. The thing I almost asked—I’m not sure I even want to say it out loud, it’s idiotic. [click, static] I was going to ask if you’re god. There. See? Fucking stupid. [click, static] But, then…who are you? What are you? If I’m the one who caused all this, then how do the two of you fit into this? I just keep circling back around to… [click, static] I’m dead, aren’t I? That’s—it’s the thing that makes the most sense. Or, I don’t know if that’s true, it doesn’t explain everything, but it would explain… Well, if I’m dead, then Birdie, Fox, Leann…it’s all a twisted figment of my imagination. There is no ripple because this is just my own personal hell, some kind of ghostly afterlife where nothing makes sense and there’s no way out and nothing and no one else is real. But I can’t bear to be alone, even in death, so… People say that your life flashes before your eyes right before you die, but maybe it’s not really like that. How would we actually know anyway? I guess, near death experiences. I’ve never had one of those, not really. So maybe that is what happens when people are facing down death, they see everything like a movie reel behind their eyelids. But what if..what if that’s not what it is. What if, instead, we see our future, our afterlife flash before our eyes? And there really isn’t an afterlife at all, but instead whatever it is we were imaging in our actual life…it flashes before our eyes but because we’re dying, the moment seems infinite. That blink of time, a life’s worth of feelings and beliefs and speculation about the universe, compacted into the last few seconds before our hearts give out. Maybe all of this is the final burst of comprehension from a dying brain. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] “You are the stone”. [click, static] Does that? Does that mean what I think it means? That…that all of this—what the world is now, the lack of people, Leann—are you trying to tell me its all my fault? How could—how does that even work? If—if this really is about something I did…I mean, fuck, I don’t know what to do with that. Even though it’s something I’ve thought about, something I’ve worried about, I never actually believed I had that kind of power. Is it…is it because of…? [click, static] Jesus, why am I asking you? I haven’t even told you what I— Wait, okay, if I’m the stone, I’m the one who made a ripple that somehow dragged Leann into all of this, then how do you fit into this, huh? And by you I mean both you morse code lunatics. Are you connected to me somehow? I mean, you must be, right? Except you seem to know what’s going on here, even if you won’t tell me, so are you… I mean, are you— (laughing) [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday. ------ [TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] “There are others. Some connected, some not”. That’s what you said. [click, static] Fuck, why am I still listening to you? You and Birdie both, you know just how to play me, know when to give me just enough tantalizing information that I find myself sitting by the radio, just waiting for your next transmission. It’s…(laughs) I’ve had this completely out there thought every now and then that you—one of you—is actually Harry after all. I don’t know if it’s just because she’s now my only reference point for people that aren’t me, or if it’s the psychological mind games, but there are just some moments… It’s ridiculous, I know it is. Not only because of the information that you’ve both given me—I mean, some of it might be crap, stuff that Harry could’ve made up, but the coordinates sure as shit were real. It’s not just that though, it’s that… I don’t think Harry is that cruel. She liked to play with emotions, that’s for sure and certain, but she wouldn’t…she wouldn’t get my hopes up like this, over and over again. Or, I mean, she did do exactly that a lot over the last fucking decade but— Harry wants there to be other people just as much as I do. She might not admit it, might be too scared of the potential consequences to go and seek answers out herself, but she doesn’t like living in this world anymore than I do. She just…she’s just convinced herself that it’s penance. That being trapped with me, forced to look at me every single day but never— [click, static] You know, that’s what she said to me in that last big fight? One of the things she said anyway. That it was torture, for her. Sharing a space with me, orbiting around each other like planets on a collision course. But it was karmic justice, that she would have to be in the gravity well of the one person who has the best reason to never want to speak to her again if she told the truth. And, of course, she was right about some of it. I didn’t want to speak to her after she told me the truth. Especially since I’d finally told her the truth, the full truth that’s made every day since I met her a kind of slow burning agony— [click, static] Anyway. Harry wouldn’t mess with me, not in this way. She wouldn’t give me false hope, not when she’s holding onto her own with bloody fingers. So maybe if I can figure out the cause, the—the stone that caused the ripple for lack of a better way of putting it—maybe then I can figure out where those waves might have gone. And maybe on the other side of that ripple is other people. [click, static] [beeps] You are the stone -.-- --- ..- / .- .-. . / - .... . / ... - --- -. .See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday. ------ [TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Okay, this sucks. [click, static] Not talking about where I’ve been driving…it sucks. I want to talk about what I’m seeing, the landscapes, the funny town names, the strange roadside attractions. But I worry that if I do, I’ll easily give myself away and then… Well, I’m not sure what I expect the worst case scenario to be, but I’m getting…paranoid again. A bit how I was when we first escaped. A bit how Harry always is. I did find something today that I don’t think would give away much, because I’m sure this isn’t the only one that exists but…it’s a tiny little church. Like, tiny tiny. Basically just an altar and enough room for a few people to stand. What on earth is this for? The world’s smallest parish? Private prayer? They’re certainly not filling the pews on Sunday, there aren’t any pews. It’s overgrown, like everything else, and it’s even more lovely because of it. Like it's not a house of worship for god, but for nature. As small as it can be so as not to intrude on the free landscape around it. I have very rarely thought about what my imaginary wedding would be like, mostly because, well, I never really thought I’d have one. Not only for the obvious reasons, the, you know, legal reasons, but because even if it was allowed, or we just wanted to do it for us, fuck whatever the law or the church says…I don’t know that I ever really thought I’d find someone for life. And then, when I did meet somebody who— Well, there were other problems, weren’t there? But if I were to have a wedding ceremony, even just for the hell of it, I certainly never would have picked a church. But I think I could see a wedding happening here. A tiny white chapel, surrounded by green, just big enough for the people you trust the most. Pocket-sized and private. It’s a silly thought. I doubt they ever had weddings at this chapel. Most people want a lot of people at their weddings, a big celebrations. This church couldn’t hold all of that. [click, static] I just want to be able to share this with someone. For finding the other survivors to finally become easy. For there to be others to find. [click, static] [beeps] There are others. Some connected, some not. - .... . .-. . / .- .-. . / --- - .... . .-. ... .-.-.- / ... --- -- . / -.-. --- -. -. . -.-. - . -.. --..-- / ... --- -- . / -. --- - .-.-.-See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday. ------ [TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] I feel a little bit like I can breath again, being back on the road. Even though I never slept in Leann’s house, I spent a lot of time in there, at all hours of the day, and it got…oppressive. Even after days of the windows being open, fresh cold air coming in, it still… Well, I’m happy to be out of there. [click, static] I think I can safely say that ghosts aren’t real. Or at least, Leann’s ghost was nowhere to be seen. I’m glad that her…spirit or whatever it might be isn’t stuck here, but it really doesn’t help me understand what the deal is with Este’s Park or the Denver photos. The Denver polaroids…I keep looking at them, trying to find more anomalies, trying to make out the finer features of the faces, but nothing reveals itself. They just start to look odder and odder the longer I look at them. Like everyone is…wearing a costume, or something. Like everything is just slightly off. They still don’t seem like ghosts. It feels more like…looking through a window, into somewhere else. Standing in the doorway of Dorothy’s home, all sepia-toned and shadowy, and looking out into the colorful world of Oz. Except I can’t step through. I’m just stuck inside. Maybe the camera is revealing something I can’t get to. Maybe…maybe I really am dead after all, behind some veil that makes me invisible to the living world. Maybe the man I saw in Estes Park wasn’t a ghost at all, but a living man, surprised to see me, a ghostly figure in his otherwise normal hotel room. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday. ------ [TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] I know I said I wasn’t listening anymore, but you’re the one who knew Leann existed in the first place so…not that I’m going to take your word for it, but: If I understand what you’re telling me…Leann was just collateral damage of some bigger ripple. Which, yeah, thanks for stating the obvious. Clearly something bigger than all of us happened and we’re the suckers that got hit by the waves. So does that mean that everyone else…drowned? Leann didn’t do anything, she’s not connected…and all I can think is that I am connected. Is that what you’re trying to say? Not every ripple affects every pond in the world. Obviously, some things are big enough to destroy everything, the meteor killing the dinosaurs. But maybe…maybe it’s not about everyone being bowled over by a wave, but about certain people in a certain pond…not connected directly but swimming in the same soup…maybe those people are all here because of some rock that got thrown into that pond. Jesus, that makes no fucking sense. And even if it did make sense, it wouldn’t help me figure out what the fuck pond I’m in. [click, static] I am heading out today. Getting away from North Dakota, leaving Leann in peace. I don’t think…I don’t think I’ll be telling you where I’m going. If anyone out there—any other survivors, real human beings who want to talk to other human beings—if any of you hear this, tell me where to meet you and I’ll drive to you. But I don’t think I’m going to be detailing my own movements, at least for a while. All of this…none of it feels right. I’m not taking any chances that aren’t necessary, not anymore. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] There’s nothing for me here. All I’m accomplishing by staying is intruding on Leann’s privacy and making myself lonelier. I don’t believe in the afterlife. Or, at least, I haven’t as a general rule. But Leann did. She believed in God, believed that dying was just an inevitable next step in a long journey. Toward the end, she welcomed death, even if she was beginning to have doubts about where she was ultimately headed. I think it’s unavoidable, in circumstances like ours. Thinking of hell, I mean. Whether you truly believe in it or not. I didn’t read all her final entries over the radio, it didn’t feel right when…well, I don’t know if it was a fever or if everything just finally got to her, but her last words didn’t make a whole lot of sense. I felt strange enough reading them, I wasn’t about to broadcast it. But it was obvious where she thought she was going next. And that makes me so…she didn’t deserve to go out thinking that. To die alone, so full of fear. No matter what kind of person she was. Not that there’s any evidence to suggest she was anything other than a good person. But she wondered this plenty, and I can’t help myself from wondering either— What did she do? To find herself here, in this terrible hollow shell of a world. What did you do, Leann? [click, static] [beeps] [click, static] L did nothing. Not connected. Ripple big. .-.. / -.. .. -.. / -. --- - .... .. -. --. .-.-.- / -. --- - / -.-. --- -. -. . -.-. - . -.. .-.-.- / .-. .. .--. .--. .-.. . / -... .. --. .-.-.-See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday. ------ [TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] “September 12th, 1974. I am not well. The last few years have been harder on my body than I ever expected, but I’ve made it through, against all odds. But it seems to finally be taking its toll. I do not know what it is that ails me, but I know it is serious. I am faint and weak, and though I have no appetite whatsoever, I do my best to feed myself. But it becomes harder and harder each day. Writing just these few sentences has already taken more energy than I can fathom, but I have to finish these thoughts before they flee my mind forever. I’m coming home, Harry. It is my deepest and last wish that I should see you again, but there is a secret fear inside of me that I won’t. I know where you are. You went into the arms of the Lord in Heaven above when you went to your eternal rest and it was always my plan and solemn vow that I would join you there one day. But what kind of loving God would do all of this to a devoted servant? Why would He leave me here without you, without our girls, without a friendly face in the world, if not to punish me for something I’ve done. I once thought that this was a test, a trial to show my strength and devotion to the Lord, but there is no glory in the death that stands in my doorway now. I do not feel like a martyr upon the cross. More like a sinner cast onto coals. What have I done to deserve this hell? There’s a rattle in my lungs and a fog in my head most moments I am awake, but I think it is the loneliness that is killing me once and for all. I’m so sorry, my love, I tried to be strong for you, to be brave, but I cannot bear it any longer. If I have failed in my test, I am sorry for it. But I have to think that hell is full, and warm, and that that might be better than this place. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday. ------ [TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] "February 2nd, 1974. The winters are getting harder and harder. It isn’t so much that the storms are worse, but that there is so much more unpredictability to them. I know the weather patterns of my home like I know my own name, but I hadn’t fully appreciated just how reliant I’d become on the Farmer’s Almanac. There is also the matter of my age. I feel the cold so much more now, and long even more for the warm comfort of my dear Harry. Oh, Harry, what has happened to us? There are days when I curse your name for leaving me when you did, for condemning me to this life alone. For I was alone even before this purgatory I’m in now. Now, I can pretend that our girls are out there still, living off the land just as we taught them, and unable to contact me. I can imagine that they are happy. But when you died, I knew you were gone forever and that I would forever be alone in the world from then on. What is my life without you? On days in which my head is clearer, I find myself thanking God that you went when you did. I can be selfish at times, and I want you with me more than anything, but I am glad that you do not have to live with this uncertainty and fear. I’m tired, Harry. I want to see you again, my love.” [click, static] I don’t know—I don’t know why I read that one aloud. There’s nothing in it that— I’m so sorry, Leann. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] “June 10th, 1972. The crop is looking better this year than ever. I believe I have this whole gardening process down pat now. I think I may need to expand my icebox this winter, as it’s looking like I’ll have too many vegetables to eat on my own. Between the produce I’ll be able to freeze and the game I expect to hunt this summer, I should be even better prepared for winter than I was last year. It is incredible how much there is to hunt now. It feels as if the deer are walking right up to my doorstep, offering themselves up to be eaten. There is no one else to scare them away. Once again, I find myself contemplating leaving North Dakota and seeking out other survivors. The radio has continued to yield no results. Neither have the regular trips I make to Bismarck. Nothing around me has changed except for the seasons and the unencumbered growth of the land beginning to overtake the roads. But I am no longer a young woman, and I feel that age in my bones more and more every day. What if I were to set out only to have an accident on the road, or run into bad weather or, worse, some danger that lurks out there that I can’t yet imagine? What if I find no trouble, but also no way to survive either? I’m afraid to leave my home for too long. It would only make sense to travel in the warmer months, and I can’t neglect my garden for too long. But then I look over the abundance I have and think that it is terribly selfish of me to have all of this to myself. Too many vegetables to eat and people out there who may have empty stomachs. I’ve decided, at least, to get the old signal fire going again. It was a right pain in the hiney to keep up those first few months, but now that every other part of my life is turning like a well-oiled wheel, I don’t think it will be too much of a burden to keep up. Perhaps this time someone will see it.” [click, static] So that’s how she was surviving—planting and hunting. She writes about some looting as well—that’s what she calls it, but I don’t think it’s looting if there’s no one to commit a crime against—but that’s mostly for supplies and equipment. So…just like us, it seems. It turns out she doesn’t just know how to do all this stuff because off her job, but also because of her father and her husband. It sounds like she and her husband both grew up living off the land. I found an old photo of what I think is Leann’s childhood home, and it looks like a one-room cabin. I doubt it had running water, let alone electricity. This house that she was living in probably felt like more luxury than she needed. I know what that feels like. And she was trying to contact people. I doubt a regular shortwave radio from North Dakota could have reached Pennsylvania, but then again my morse code friends seemed to have figured something out. If I had just put my foot down, insisted that we get a radio going… There’s no point in wondering “what if”. But I still hate that she was out here, trying to reach out, while we were holed up in that stupid fucking house, blocking out the world. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] I—I found her diary. And it…well, it feels wrong, it is wrong to read it, but I’ve done a lot of wrong things to survive, and this feels like just another for the pile. She didn’t write in it very often, at least not after 1969. There are some entries before the incident, just mundane life stuff that I didn’t do much more than skim. It isn’t relevant and I don’t want to violate her privacy more than I have to. So it’s best to focus on the entries from ’68 on. At first, it seems like she didn’t notice that something was wrong—it seems like her life was pretty isolated to begin with, spending most of her job outside, on her own, living alone and talking on the phone every two weeks with her daughters. Her husband—he’s been dead for a few years it looks like. Or, god, nearly a decade now, I guess. A few years when this whole thing started. His name— (a dark laugh) You won’t believe this, but his name was Harry. Boy, was that a shock to the system when I read the words “Since Harry passed”. I felt like I was going to faint for a moment before I remembered where I was and what I was reading. I had to take a break for a while after that. I’ve had to take breaks a few times. Just reading about someone else’s life is… I’ve flipped through the journal, and the last entry looks like it’s from a few months ago, with only a few entries each year the last few years. I guess that makes sense. I know I would have very little to write about if I had kept a journal the last five or so years. That first year, sure, but since then…well, not much happens. I guess that isn’t true for the last six months. A lot has happened, even if it doesn’t feel like it—I’m barely closer to finding anyone or understanding anything than I was when I started, but compared to the small, monotonous existence of Pennsylvania, my head spins when I think about everything I’ve done since I left. I have been keeping a journal of sorts, I guess, in these broadcasts. I don’t even know who I’m talking to anymore, but you’re getting almost every thought, any substantial event that takes place. If that’s not a journal, what is? But just like all these transmissions I’m making, I don’t expect Leann’s journal to hold many answers. If she’d known any more than what I did, surely she would’ve figured something out, would’ve left this place, would’ve—would’ve lived. Then again, maybe she knew exactly what happened and decided she was better off alone. I’ll just have to read and find out. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] [a cacophony of beeps] [click] Okay, okay, I get it, just stop. [click, static, beeps] (sighing) This isn’t—this isn’t helpful. Maybe you can’t hear what I’m hearing, but two messages are coming in at once and as a result, I can’t hear a goddamn thing. A fox yapping and a bird chirping at the same time and I’m the fool trying to make sense of both of them. If you truly care for me to understand what you’re trying to tell me, then you can figure something else out, something that’s not…this. Meanwhile, I’m going to be doing my own goddamn investigating. I’m going to figure out how Leann lived. Surviving on your own, especially all the way up here, out here, and especially at her age…its no easy feat. Maybe she really was just proficient in survival because of her job, maybe that was enough, or maybe she wasn’t totally alone the whole time. Maybe the husband in the photos…maybe he was with her and died years ago. Maybe her daughters are still out there and have been gone from home for one reason or another. Maybe she had people to help her, people to rely on, people to…goddamn pass the time with. If she did, I’m going to find them. Even they are—even if they did eventually… It matters that she’s dead. Of course it matters. I really, really wish that she wasn’t. But, dead or alive, she’s here. And that’s what matters. She’s existed in this strange after-world, right alongside Harry and I, without any of us realizing it. And as far as I can tell, the three of us have nothing in common beyond being women who are decently self-sufficient. Leann was born here, in North Dakota, and doesn’t seem to have traveled more than a few hundred miles from this general area her entire life. I don’t have an exhaustive list of every place that Harry has ever visited, but I’m pretty sure she’s never been out this way. So none of us crossed paths. Harry and I were criminals, and Leann worked for the government…but for the Bureau of Land Management. That’s hardly—I mean, it’s not the FBI, it isn’t like our paths would’ve crossed once Harry and I got arrested. And maybe it’s not important that we would’ve crossed paths or not, maybe it’s…maybe it’s some kind of weird gene we all share or something, something intrinsic in each of us that’s caused us to survive when everyone else… What, evaporated? Leann’s body is the first that I’ve seen. If we were all immune to something, we’d see everybody who wasn’t. I have…I have no theories. After the thing with the tornado siren, I started to think again that maybe…maybe it’s not that everyone else is gone, maybe it’s that we’re somewhere else. That maybe that dark feeling I have sometimes about this being purgatory or hell is right. It’s what I deserve, and for years I didn’t understand what Harry would’ve done to earn the same punishment but then she— [click, static] I don’t know what Leann could have possibly done to land herself here. And if it is some sort of cosmic punishment, well…where the fuck is everyone else? There are things that I’ve done that I’m not proud of, that I carry a hell of a lot of guilt and shame about actually, but I know there are worse people than me. Is this a perfectly calibrated hell for people who have done something bad but not that bad? Maybe Leann was a shitty mom, or was stealing money from her job, or…who knows. But if she had done something like that, then her and Harry being in the same place…sure, I can see that. But I don’t belong with them. What I did was so much worse, objectively. I know that. I don’t pretend like it was right or noble or anything like that. Necessary, maybe, or at least I thought so at the time— [click, static] I just don’t get it. I don’t understand how we’re connected. And maybe I’m looking for a connection where I’ll never find one, maybe it’s just weird fucking coincidence but that doesn’t feel…right. If only three of us made it past 1968, there must be a reason. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday. ------ [TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] I…I’ve thought about staying here longer. About starting to sleep in the house to see if I can see any ghosts. Because why not right? I’ve seen plenty of things by this point that would suggest that as a possibility. Maybe the ghost in Estes’ Park was the ghost of someone who’s body was in one of the hotel rooms—it’s not like I checked every single one. Maybe if I hung around, I’d see Leann too. But what would be the point? She wouldn’t know what the hell was going on, and I don’t think I could talk to her. It would just be another person out of my reach. And sure, maybe I would confirm for good that ghosts are real, but what would that tell me, really? Other than reemphasizing what I already know, which is that I’m way in over my head. It wouldn’t help me, to know that. And I’m…I think I’ve learned enough this week. I’m not sure I want to know more. I know the important things. That I don’t know shit and that I’m alone. [click, static] [a cacophony of beeps] -. --- - / .- .-.. --- -. . / .-.. . .- -. -. / .-. .- -. -.. --- -- / -... ..- - / -.-. --- -. -. . -.-. - . -.. .... . .- -.. / . .- ... -See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.