The telephone station looked like something out of an old black-and-white movie—small, rundown, and with a flickering neon sign that read “COMMUNICATIONS” in a faded green glow. I half-expected a rotary phone to greet us when we stepped inside.
Mr. Thorne didn’t bother hiding his disdain as he glanced around. “This is what they call a station?” he muttered, his brows knitting together.
“Better than nothing,” I said, rubbing my arms against the chill still clinging to me from our trek. My damp clothes weren’t doing me any favors.
“Debatable,” he shot back, heading straight for the counter.
The clerk behind the counter barely glanced up from his ancient radio, which was playing a scratchy country tune. “Phone’s over there,” he grunted, gesturing lazily toward the corner.
Mr. Thorne
