"This voice," Henry thought, "I know it, but it's different in some way."

Confusion reigned in Henry's mind, which felt like it had just been slammed into high gear. "After all these years... I'd thought for sure he'd become a silent key...I can't believe it," Henry barely whispered, and just to steady himself reached for a healthy gulp from his coffee cup. What was disturbing about the voice from his past was the halting, slurred speech characteristic of so many stroke victims he had heard during his volunteer days at St. Martha's hospital. This voice had a determination in it that riveted Henry and made his right index finger tremble above the push-to-talk bar.

"Papa...Zu...Zu...Zulu...Lima...calling CQ and...standing...standing...b-b-by."

Henry was petrified. Answer him!, his mind ordered, but his hand refused the message. Call him quickly! Call him! Call the station!

Weak from fear, his hand relaxed, dropping limply on the microphone button as Henry opened a mouth full of cotton. His first words squeaked out like the 12-year-old neighbor boy's next door. It was a good thing years of operating had etched his call sign into his brain, because Henry would not have been able to recall it at the moment. He gave his call sign, let up on the microphone, and listened, while his head burned and tears began to well up in his eyes.

Choices:

1. Henry hears the other station return.
2. Henry loses his nerve and tunes off frequency.
3. Henry does something else.

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