RADIO ANNOUNCER (V.O.):
"This is the Columbia Broadcasting System. Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is Harold Whitmore, reporting to you on this Thursday, the seventeenth of July, nineteen-hundred and fifty-two."
Radio static crackles. A clipped, mid-century accent slices through the hum.
RADIO ANNOUNCER (V.O.):
"Entire wards are filled with young ones who can no longer move their arms, nor their legs—some, God help them, can no longer breathe on their own, now reliant upon great iron machines to draw each breath..."
The sunlight lay on the floor like spilled honey.
Steam spiraled from a dented pot.
He stirred slowly. Sprinkled in green peas. Carrots.
A hint of thyme—for Brooklyn Butter Soup. Cheap, warm.
The scent was soft, almost gentle... until it reminded him—
Of hands he couldn't hold anymore. Of rooms filled with breath he couldn't catch.
He stood stiff in his slate shirt, limp dragging behind him.
His right hand shook.
The tea spilled again.
