Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey.

--------

[TRANSCRIPTS]

[click, static]

Well, I nearly accidentally killed myself last night. 

[click, static]

I got in late—no sign of any organized groups of people, doomsday or otherwise. No sign of people, period. It was a foolish errand maybe. And I was exhausted but I made dinner as I usually do—as usual as anything can be when you’ve only been doing it a few days—but I fried up a little spam, with some canned spinach, little bit of American cheese I brought from home that I think will stay good for a while—

[click, static]

Not home. It’s not home anymore. I don’t know if it ever really was home. No more than this random West Virginia house is. No more than any place has been since I was fifteen years old. The cars have been more of a home to me—

[click, static]

God, I’m still a little loopy. I left the gas on is the thing. I don’t know how, but when I turned off the burners, I guess one knob must’ve been a little finicky or something because by the time I was getting ready to go to sleep last night, I was feeling strange. Thankfully, I’m not an idiot, contrary to all the evidence I’ve given you, my radio stranger, my little void in the form of static, so I checked the stove and then opened all the windows the moment I figured out what went wrong. I slept with the windows open all night, just to be safe, checking the burners first thing this morning to make sure they stayed all the way off. 

So I’m fine! I’m fine. But it…I don’t know. 

[click, static]

I could die out here, die anywhere, and no one would ever know. And I guess that could’ve been true during a lot of times in my life but no matter what I have to say about the last six years, I wouldn’t’ve have dropped dead without someone taking notice. 

[click, static]

I can’t speak to how Harry would have felt about it, but she would’ve noticed. 

[click, static]

For all she knows now, I am already dead. I ran out of gas or food or water or crashed the car. I’d like to think that—despite whatever else she might think about me—she at least knows me well enough to have a little more faith that I could survive than that but…I don’t know. 

[click, static]

I don’t want to die alone. I don’t want to live alone. But what if I really am alone? What if we both are? 

What if we’re the last two people left in this stupid place and I’m the one who sentenced us to an existence of isolation?

[click, static]