We drive out to the factory in Clarke's car. His radio's busted and the needle is jammed between stations. So the four of us—Clarke, Jones, Wayker and I—just listen the fuzzy tones criss-crossing over the radio waves. Every now and then a voice comes through the garbled static. With different throats the voice calls out, Dow Jones and I-76 and Chlorox and here and there bits of unrecognizable speech. These artifacts become words in my visual cortex—whole arrays of words. I don't hear them but I see them reflected in a dim light across the inner wall of my head…