The Phone

1. Try not to die

The phone is pink. 

Somehow, that's the most unsettling thing about it. A pink rotary dial phone sitting on a simple wooden desk in the Communication Station—a concrete room painted institutional green, lit by a single hanging lamp. 

No windows. No decorations. Just me, the phone, and walls that feel like they're closing in.

"Original treaty equipment," Lale says, running her hand along the coiled cord. "Fifty years old and still the only authorized contact method. No computers, no cell towers, no modern tech that could be hacked or traced."

"But why pink?"

"Story goes that the first Communicator chose it. Said it would remind both sides that this whole arrangement is absurd." She shrugs. "Or maybe it was the only color available. Nobody remembers anymore."

She checks her watch. "If he calls, it'll be around sunset. That's in twenty minutes. But don't hold your breath—before the recent troubles, we went almost ten years without a single call."

"Ten years?"

"Wolves don't need us. When they call, it means something's wrong."

She opens a logbook, its pages yellowed with age. "Every call gets documented. Time, duration, general topics. No recordings allowed—another treaty stipulation."

I flip through the pages. Years of blank entries—then, two days ago, the pattern breaks. Everything documented is blacked out, censored so thoroughly I can't tell what Halbert had written.

"Lale," I ask, looking up at her questioningly, but she just points to a chair. "Sit. Get comfortable. Could be a long wait."

Great. Apparently they're still not willing to tell me what happened. 

"Any advice?"

"Yeah. Try not to die like Halbert." She heads for the door. "I'll be in the main building if you need something."

The door closes with a heavy thud.

The room feels smaller without another person in it. The chair is uncomfortable, wooden, designed for function, not comfort.

I study Halbert's entries while I wait, trying to decipher anything, but I can tell almost nothing from his notes. 

Most of it is censored, and some pages have been torn out completely.

I try to remember the little information they gave me when I arrived here. 

It's a very secluded area. The last communicator, apparently had a falling out with a wolf—and by that we mean he probably got himself killed by one—leaving his position empty to be filled again.

This is my first assignment. 

The selection criteria were obviously rigorous: be tall, look intimidating, possess just enough idiocy to actually accept the job. 

Well, I certainly qualified. Finally, someone the wolves will respect—that was the one compliment I always got while studying to be a Communicator. 

That I look intimidating and strong.

Except I've never felt at home in my skin. 

Since I was a kid, I've always towered over everybody else. I didn't want to be intimidating. I just wanted to fit in.

Well, spoiler alert: that didn't work out. Instead, I just grew taller, and because I chose the more technical, combat side of being a Communicator—with an emphasis on defensive training in my studies—I also became muscular.

So much for fitting in.

I stare at the phone, watching it.

My muscles tense with anticipation, although I know it would be highly unusual for the wolves to call again. 

I sigh and lean back, still watching the old phone, flexing my fingers into fists and then releasing them again. 

Someone told me once that could help with nervousness.

I watch it for what seems like hours. 

At some point, I try to lean even farther back, close my eyes a little. 

I haven't had the opportunity to shower before coming here, and when my shift is over in the morning, all I want is a hot shower and a bed.

My room will be close to the Communication Station—they always are—but Lale mentioned mine is a bit closer to the forest than Halbert's was. In case. She didn't finish the sentence. 

In case the wolves decide a phone call isn't enough?

In case they need easier access?

I wonder if Halbert ever made it back to his room that last—

Ring.

The phone.

The phone.

By the way my heart is trying to jump out of my chest, no one would ever believe I actually trained to be a Communicator. 

I'm probably the most unqualified person on earth. Almost having a panic attack just from hearing it ring.

Fuck, what is wrong with me? Get it together.

The sound is sharp, too loud in the concrete box of a room.

Out of instinct, my hand reaches out to pick it up, but then freezes halfway to the pink receiver.

Fuck, I don't feel prepared at all for this.

Why am I here?

What am I doing?

What happened to Halbert?

Why the fuck didn't I say no?

The phone rings again. 

I pick up.

Silence.

My mouth suddenly goes dry, and I have to swallow twice before I can force the protocol words out.

"Tahim Mahel, Communicator for the Kalsubera North Territory."

"Communicator," a rough voice says, and I inadvertently have to suppress a shiver. "I have a question for you."

He pauses.

Fuck. That voice—

"Are you gonna be as stupid and get yourself killed like the last one?"