Bill Hudson had spent forty-two years telling himself his father was crazy. The radio signal made him wonder if his father had been the only sane person in the family.
He was driving his truck through the mountains of eastern Kentucky when he first heard it. Not on his CB radio—that was full of truckers talking about weigh stations and speed traps. This was on his ham radio, a hobby he'd inherited from his father along with a collection of equipment that had sat in their trailer's basement for twenty years, gathering dust and ridicule. The signal was a...
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