Free Sneak by Evan Angler

crummy old speaker.
    Out of the back dangled two wires, stuck to a potato with copper and zinc clips.
    “Papa said to turn it ’til this little needle points to thirty-nine hundred kilohertz.”
    “ Man , do you have to wind it up too? I’m surprised it’s not made out of a rock.” Eddie laughed.
    “Is that a potato battery?” Jo asked. “We learned about those
    in, like, first-grade science class.”
    Blake nodded. “Papa warned us this tech was old. I guess it’s
    supposed to run off batteries that don’t even exist anymore. He said this rig here was the best he could do.”
    “How is a Markless supposed to find one of these things?”
    Eddie asked.
    “They aren’t. This is the fancy version.” Dane laughed. “Believe it or not. Papa says for the most part people listen in on that foxhole kind he was describing, with the wire and razor blades, however that works.”
    Tyler turned the first knob on the radio and jumped back when a 60
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    static click erupted from the speaker. Then Dane turned the second, and the little needle moved across the number strip. When it passed over the thirty-nine hundred kilohertz mark, the static lessened, and a voice took its place. Like a lonely face emerging on a foggy street, Papa Hayes’s voice came through the old speaker, fuzzy, but loud and unmistakable.
    “ . . . can’t help but be reminded of the story of Exodus. ‘But the more they were oppressed, the more they multiplied and spread; so the Egyptians came to dread the Israelites and worked them ruth-lessly. They made their lives bitter . . .’”
    “Whoa!” Tyler yelled. “It’s Papa! Guys, are you hearing this?”
    “Keep it down.” Eddie laughed. “We’re hearing it, we’re hear-
    ing it . . .”
    But suddenly Dane’s face went blank with surprise and dis-
    belief. “And not for the first time,” he said.
    Blake looked at him. “What do you mean?”
    “I’ve heard this before,” Dane said. “Papa’s voice on the radio.
    For years now, I’ve been hearing it. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize him sooner!”
    “How?” Jo asked. “Dane, what are you talking about?”
    “Back home. My family had a Markless servant, George. I
    always liked him, and he and I . . . we’d hang out sometimes, at night, you know?” Dane spoke slowly now, lost in his memories.
    “How many times did I walk in on him listening to this? I can’t even remember. They were stories—a different one every night.
    Like, ancient history stuff. About people suffering or celebrating or doing awesome things . . . George loved it! He listened almost every night on this big antique thing that sat on the floor of his room—I guess . . . well, I guess it must have been a radio. It was a present my parents gave him. The only thing he ever asked for. I 61
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    never thought anything of it. But hearing this now . . .” He laughed.
    “I can’t believe it . . .”
    Jo chuckled, fixating on an earlier point of Dane’s story. “A
    Markless servant . . .”
    “Oh. Yeah . . . ,” Dane said uneasily. “Sorry. I know that’s . . .
    not too cool . . .”
    Jo was quiet for a minute while they listened to Papa Hayes
    coming through on the tinny speaker. “Must be tough for you,” Jo said, sincerely. “Adjusting to all this. It’s not exactly Old District out here.”
    Dane frowned. “To tell you the truth, it’s a bit of a relief,” he said. “I never much liked it in that stuffy house. My parents are definitely what you guys would call hotshots. Moguls. Tycoons.
    Marked and rich and proud of it.” He shook his head. “All I ever wanted to do was play music. I don’t even think they liked me
    much. George was cool, though. You could say I miss George.”
    “I miss my parents,” Jo said. “Every single day.”
    “What happened to ’em?”
    Jo looked down at her hands. The wet logs were still steam-
    ing in front of her. “I grew up on