The last voice faded into static, the kind that makes your skin itch if you listen too long. Cronauer leaned back, rubbing his eyes. No one in the room said a word for a moment. Then the hiss of the radio snapped off with a click.

“Well,” Dave said slowly, “that was cheerful.”

“They’re not even pretending anymore,” Cronauer replied. “DHS directives? Confiscate civilian transmitters? Like they’ve still got the reach to do it.”

Bill gave a dry laugh. “Let ‘em come. I’ll leave out a welcome mat made of sandbags and sarcasm.”

They were still standing around the table when the low rumble of a diesel engine drifted up from the road. No whine, no sputter — just the unmistakable growl of something analog, old-school. It slowed, rolled up the drive, and stopped out front.

All three men stepped out onto the porch as a battered F-250 creaked to a stop. It was an ugly beast — mismatched panels, a bent antenna, and the faint smell of diesel clinging to it like cologne. The man who stepped out looked like a cross between a doomsday prepper and an extra from Grizzly Adams.

“Brett Whyte,” Dave muttered. “I’ll be damned.”

Bill grinned. “The Ridge Prophet himself.”

Cronauer looked between them. “Friend of yours?”

“Depends on the year,” Dave said.

Brett ambled up the walk, hands in the pockets of a military-surplus coat that might have been older than he was. “Heard your broadcast. Got a signal all the way out to my ridge.”

“Didn’t think you listened to anything that didn’t come from a CB or a conspiracy blog,” Bill said.

“I listen to what matters,” Brett replied. “And right now, what matters is that people know what the hell is going on.”

Cronauer crossed his arms. “And what is going on, according to you?”

“Meeting. Tomorrow, noon. Viroqua Public Library. Word’s out — folks are trying to figure out what’s left, what we’ve got to work with. And Joy Luebke’s organizing it.”

That name landed like a dropped tool.

“She’s still around?” Bill asked.

“Not just around. Running the co-op. Feeding half the town, organizing the rest. I think she might be the closest thing we’ve got to a mayor.”

“And this meeting,” Cronauer said. “How’d you hear about it?”

“Word of mouth. I was at the co-op, trading tools for goat cheese. Heard someone say Joy wants to get a headcount. Make plans.”

Dave raised an eyebrow. “You showing up to help, or just to spectate?”

Brett smirked. “I’ll be there. But figured you all should know — there’s been traffic on the river. Mississippi. Organized voices. Barge chatter. Something’s moving out there. Might be traders, might be worse. I don’t trust it. But I damn well want to know who they are before they find us.”

He turned back toward his truck.

“You’re actually making sense,” Bill called after him.

“Even a busted clock,” Brett said with a wave, and climbed in. The truck belched smoke and rattled back toward the trees.

The three stood watching until the noise faded into the hills.

Dave was the first to speak. “Think it’s worth going?”

Cronauer nodded. “Joy’s name carries weight. And if nothing else, it’s a way to start building something again.”

Bill snorted. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll bring my good coat.”

Cronauer smiled faintly. “We’ll go. We’ll listen. But just so we’re clear — this isn’t about playing town council. This is about keeping the lights on — whatever that means now.”

“Agreed,” Dave said. “But hey — you’ve got to start somewhere.”

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