But his father’s handwriting screamed from the page: DO NOT USE.

Leo’s thumb hovered over the transmit button. He wanted to push it, to say “Hello? This is Leo. WB2XRP’s son.”

It wasn’t a proper manual. It was a dog-eared, coffee-stained spiral-bound memo book, the kind his father always kept in his breast pocket. The first few pages were shopping lists and reminders: “Fix shed roof. Buy birdseed. Call Mike about chainsaw.”

He never heard the screaming his father wrote about. Only the thumping.

The radio on the workbench looked like a brick. A scuffed, olive-drab brick with a stubby antenna and a keypad worn smooth by a thousand thumbs. It was a Motorola CP1300, a relic from an era when “portable communication” meant a five-pound anchor on your belt.

His rational mind fought back. It’s a joke. Dad had a dark sense of humor. A prank for me to find after he was gone.

Ch 20: 151.925 – The Heron’s Nest (Bar & Grill. Order the chili. Ask for Jimmy.)

Always the thumping.