Frank Kowalski sat in his recliner and watched the television and drank his beer and tried not to think about the fact that he could not remember the last time he had slept through the night.

The television was a Zenith with a picture that was too bright and a sound that was too loud and a channel that was mostly commercials. He had the volume up high because he liked the noise. Silence made him think. And thinking made him remember. And remembering made him want to drink more beer.

He was fifty-eight years old and he had spent twenty-five years as a radar operator at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in Dayton, Ohio. He had seen the height of the Cold War. He had watched the screens during the Cuban Missile Crisis and he had seen the blips appear and he had held his breath and he had waited and he had watched them disappear and he had told himself that he had done his part and he had gone home to his wife and his son and he had drunk a beer and he had slept for twelve hours and he had woken up and done it all again the next day.

Now he was retired. The base was still there but he was not. The screens were still there but he was not. The blips were still there but he was not.

He had been replaced by computers. Computers that didn't need sleep or beer or a man to sit in a chair and watch a screen for twelve hours straight and try not to think about the fact that every blip on that screen represented a missile that could kill millions of people.

He drank his beer. He watched the television. A news anchor was talking about something. He couldn't hear what it was. The volume was too loud for words.

The doorbell rang.

Frank looked at the door. It was past midnight. Nobody visited him at past midnight. He set his beer down on the side table and got up from the recliner and walked to the door and opened it.

There was a young man standing on the porch. He was maybe twenty-two, maybe twenty-three, with dark hair and dark eyes and a face that was all angles and edges, like he had been carved out of something hard and unyielding. He was wearing a jacket that was too thin for June and a backpack that looked like it had seen better days.

"Can I come in?" he said.

Frank looked at him. The young man's eyes were bright and restless, like a animal that had been running for a long time and hadn't found anywhere to stop.

"Why?" Frank said.

"I need to talk to someone. Anyone. I've been driving for two days and I haven't spoken to a soul."

Frank looked at the young man for a long moment. Then he stepped aside and said, "Come in."

The young man entered the trailer and looked around. The trailer was small and sparse and exactly what you would expect from a retired radar operator who had spent his life watching screens instead of people. A recliner. A television. A kitchenette. A bedroom with a single bed. A bathroom with a shower curtain that hadn't been cleaned in years.

"Sit down," Frank said, gesturing to the other chair in the living room.

The young man sat. He set his backpack on the floor and leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees and looked at Frank with those bright, restless eyes.

"I'm Tony," he said.

"Frank."

"I know. I've heard about you."

"Have you?"

"Yeah. You were a radar operator at Wright-Patterson. Twenty-five years. You saw the Missile Crisis. You watched the screens."

"How do you know all this?"

Tony smiled. It was a thin smile, not entirely genuine. "I do a lot of research before I meet people."

Frank studied him. There was something off about this young man. Not dangerous-off. Not threatening-off. Just... off. Like a radio signal that was almost but not quite clear.

"What kind of research?" he said.

"The kind that tells me you spent twenty-five years sitting in a chair and watching a screen and trying not to think about the fact that every blip on that screen represented a missile that could kill millions of people."

Frank felt a cold finger trace the length of his spine. He picked up his beer and drank it and set it down and said, "What do you want, Tony?"

"I want to tell you something."

"About what?"

"About the static."

Frank stared at him. "The static?"

Tony nodded. "You know what I'm talking about. The thing that happens when the radar goes dark. When the screen goes blank. When you can't see anything. When you don't know what's coming."

Frank felt the blood drain from his face. "Who told you about that?"

"Nobody told me anything. I know about it because I worked in signal intelligence. I was in the Army for four years. I worked on electronic warfare. I know about jamming. I know about blocking. I know about the things that happen when you turn off the lights and see what's hiding in the dark."

Frank sat down in his recliner. He picked up his beer and drank it and set it down and said, "What are you doing here, Tony?"

"I don't know. I think... I think I'm looking for something. I don't know what. But I think it's here. In this trailer. In you."

Frank looked at the young man. He looked at his bright, restless eyes. He looked at his thin, unyielding face. And he felt something rise in his chest that he had not felt since he was a young man and he had sat in front of a radar screen and watched the blips appear and disappear and he had told himself that he was doing something important and he had believed it.

"Sit down," he said. "Tell me everything."

Tony sat. He told Frank about signal intelligence. He told him about electronic warfare. He told him about jamming and blocking and the things that happened when you turned off the lights and saw what was hiding in the dark. He told him about a project he had worked on in the Army—a project called the Broadband Interference Initiative—and about a technology that had been developed to create a "wall of static" that could block all electronic communications in a given area.

"We called it the Wall," Tony said. "Because that's what it was. A wall of static. A wall of noise. A wall that separated the people on one side from the people on the other side. The people on one side could hear everything. The people on the other side could hear nothing."

"What happened to the project?" Frank said.

"I don't know. It was classified. I was discharged. I don't know what happened to the technology. I don't know if it's still being developed. I don't know if it's still being used."

He leaned forward and looked at Frank with those bright, restless eyes.

"But I think it's still out there," he said. "I think it's still being used. And I think... I think it's in your head, Frank."

Frank felt a cold finger trace the length of his spine. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you spent twenty-five years watching a screen and listening to static and trying not to think about the fact that every blip on that screen represented a missile that could kill millions of people. And I think that static got into your head. And I think it's still in there. And I think it's still talking to you."

Frank stared at him. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to tell the young man to get out of his trailer and never come back. But he couldn't. Because Tony was right. The static was in his head. It had been in his head for twenty-five years. And it was still there, still talking to him, still whispering in his ear, still telling him about the blips and the missiles and the millions of people who could die because of a mistake or a miscommunication or a moment of weakness.

He picked up his beer and drank it and set it down and said, "Go to sleep in the bedroom. Tomorrow morning, you can leave."

Tony nodded. He picked up his backpack and walked to the bedroom and closed the door.

Frank sat in his recliner and watched the television and drank his beer and tried not to think about the fact that he could not remember the last time he had slept through the night.

In the morning, he woke up and went to the bedroom to wake Tony up and tell him to get his stuff and leave.

He opened the door.

The bed was made. The backpack was gone. The room was empty.

Frank stood in the doorway for a long time. Then he went back to the living room and poured himself a beer and sat down in his recliner and watched the television and drank his beer and tried not to think about the fact that he could not remember the last time he had slept through the night.

He went to the kitchen and made coffee and sat at the table and drank the coffee and thought about Tony. Had he really been there? Had he really spoken to Frank? Had he really told him about the Broadband Interference Initiative and the Wall and the static?

Frank went to the bedroom again. The bed was made. The backpack was gone. The room was empty. But on the pillow, there was a cigarette butt. Freshly smoked. Still warm.

Frank picked it up and examined it. It was a Camel. Tony had been smoking a Camel. Frank had seen him light one up the night before.

So Tony had been here. He had really been here. He had really spoken to Frank. He had really told him about the Wall and the static.

But he was gone now. And nobody in the trailer park had seen him leave. Nobody had seen him arrive. Nobody had seen him at all.

Frank went back to the living room and sat down in his recliner and watched the television and drank his beer and tried not to think about the fact that he could not remember the last time he had slept through the night.

He turned on the radio. Static. He turned it off. He turned on the television. The news anchor was talking about something. He couldn't hear what it was. The volume was too loud for words.

He turned off the television. The silence was worse.

He sat in his recliner and he listened to the silence and he understood that the static was not something that happened on a radar screen. It was something that happened inside you. It was the sound of your own mind trying to block out the things you didn't want to hear. The things you didn't want to know. The things you didn't want to remember.

And the static was always there. Always whispering. Always telling you about the blips and the missiles and the millions of people who could die because of a mistake or a miscommunication or a moment of weakness.

Frank Kowalski sat in his recliner and drank his beer and listened to the static and understood that some bridges, once removed, can never be rebuilt.

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