by Michele Longo Eder
"Go, go, go! the deep voice shouted, right near my ear. Bob s calloused hand, which had just been caressing my thigh, grabbed the source of the sound: a black, hand-held VHF radio, located on the rickety nightstand next to the bed in the hotel room where we lay. The digital clock, lit with red numbers, showed 2 a.m. I m coming, Bob said, having flipped the radio into transmission mode. He jumped out of bed and...
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