The Middle of the Dial

You turn it fast. The ticks come before each station and quicken, then the voice, then it is behind you. A woman reading SHOAL IS A THRESHOLD off a sign. A man saying three, one, three, and waiting, and saying it again. A chirp, very high. A woman a long way off, in two languages: carry each other's lanterns. A warm voice, unhurried: Take what you need.

If you wrote down ECHO, the chirp comes back slower on the left.

At the middle of the dial the hum under your fingers has climbed to an E, and the ticking stops all at once. The needle seats itself. A voice says LISTEN HERE, and nothing else.

Past it, faint, a dry voice is describing a cube on a curb in the shade of an oak.