The voice on the numbers station haunted his dreams. He listened to her as he fell asleep at night, and he wondered if he was actually hearing it when he was awake.

“7. 5. 23. 47. 102. 6.”

Just a voice. Company to help him sleep. He worked from home and lived alone after getting out of a three-year situationship. His co-workers were boxes on his screen. But he was getting out. He was socializing.

“99. 13. 5. 5. 83.”

His friends had started to flake on hanging out lately. He found himself relieved and took it as permission to flake as well. The stress of being presentable? Of small talk? Of being present and not looking at your phone?

Who needed it? Text was fine. They could check in easily enough.

“28. 29. 30. 1. 3. 8. 207.”

He had his groceries delivered now. Prime customer, everything same day. His family ties had never been strong, and no side was putting in that much of an effort. Why bother – the other person clearly wasn’t.

“19. 18. 17. 3,607.”

He had the station on all the time as he socialized on weekends. TikTok. Reddit. Discords. Someone on a voice chat overheard her and asked where she was broadcasting from. He admitted he didn’t know.

“9. 9. 9. 9. 9. 9. 9.”

He took a Waymo out to the public park where he traced her call from. Went out in the evening when all the hikers and families were pulling out of the well-lit safety of the parking lot, down the circuit boards of the city streets, back to homes and bars, and restaurants.

He climbed up and found it – a transformer tower overlooking the city. A grid of wires and steel. His equipment was clear – the broadcast was coming from here, as if from within the steel itself.

He turned on his radio, lay on the ground beneath the towers, and let the night take him over as he listened to her voice.

“5. 4. 3. 2. 1.”

And as the night took his body and left him just a voice, leaving him without a self, he panicked. What was he? Who was he? He had to keep himself; he had to stick to something.

So he started saying whatever numbers came into his head.

“7. 5. 23. 47. 102. 6.”