I shook my head.
“Someone authorized needs to use the radio.”
He made an impatient sound.
“You're standing here telling me what it does. Why can't you operate it?”
“Because I'm thirteen.”
The words came out louder than I intended.
All three men stared.
I swallowed.
Then continued.
“Grandpa taught me the system. He also taught me not to operate emergency communications without the proper supervision.”
Russell looked toward Danner.
“I'm on the county auxiliary operations roster.”
Danner turned.
“What?”
Russell seemed almost embarrassed.
“I took the emergency communications training last year.”
He glanced toward the shed.
“We practiced on an analog backup channel. I can make an initial response if this is the authorized county auxiliary station.”
I stared at him.
For the first time that afternoon, Russell sounded like someone who knew what he was doing.
Danner frowned.
“You never mentioned that.”
Russell looked uncomfortable.
“You never asked.”
Brent stopped recording with his phone.
The remark hung in the cold air.
Then I pointed toward the shed.
“There's a laminated station procedure by the desk. It has the county contact instructions and the station identification.”
Russell nodded.
“Show me.”
I led him toward the building.
Danner followed.
Brent came behind us, still staring at his useless phone.
The equipment shed smelled exactly as it always had.
Old wood.
Metal.
Dust.
And the faint, warm scent of electrical equipment.
Inside, the monitoring instruments were illuminated.
The station's battery-supported power system was operating normally.
A small meter showed the limited energy available.
And above the desk hung the framed county agreement Grandpa had asked me to read months earlier.
Russell stopped in front of it.
“Thomas Hale.”
I looked at him.
“You knew Grandpa?”
He nodded slowly.
“Everybody knew your grandfather.”
Then he looked toward the radio.
“Didn't know this was still here.”
I felt a sharp anger rise inside me.
The equipment had been maintained.
Inspected.
Documented.
And preserved because the county once considered it important.
Yet the men responsible for county infrastructure hadn't even known it existed.
Russell read the posted procedure.
Checked the station's authorization information.
Then lifted the microphone.
He took a breath.
“Laurel Ridge backup, this is county auxiliary operator Gentry at the Hale farm station. We copy school transport seven. Please confirm your location and immediate conditions.”
Static crackled.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then the driver's voice returned.
“Thank God. We hear you.”
I closed my eyes.
Russell leaned closer to the microphone.
“Go ahead, transport seven.”