Radio Call
The harbor shack door creaked open under Greg’s shoulder, hinges protesting. Inside, the faint smell of salt and diesel hung in the air. A dusty radio sat on the desk, red light glowing faintly. Thomas dropped into the chair, flipped switches, and pressed the mic. “Coast Guard Station Delta, this is Port Eider,” he said firmly. Static crackled, then a clipped voice replied: “Identify yourself.” Relief rushed through his chest.
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