Chapter 2
KAI
The word hangs in the air, followed by a shuffling sound and then the click of the shutting door. I stay perfectly still behind the equipment panel where I’ve been crouched for the last ten minutes, my legs cramping and my heart still racing.
I count to ten, making sure he’s really gone. My left leg has gone half-numb from the awkward angle. When I came in to fix a loose cable connection twenty minutes ago, I didn’t expect someone to walk in. Didn’t expect what I heard.
I extract myself slowly, my joints protesting as I stretch as much as I can, considering my six-foot-one frame.
The chair where Atlas sat is empty. The headphones rest on their hook, slightly askew. Everything else looks the same as before he walked in.
But nothing feels the same.
The red light is still on. Still running. His entire confession, from the first hesitant words about his parents’ marriage to that final broken fuck recorded.
I should stop the recording. Add it to the archive like every other story.
But this isn’t like every other story.
This is someone’s private devastation. Yes, he pressed the button himself, and he chose to speak. But he didn’t know I was here. That he had an audience. And I heard the way his voice cracked when he said he didn’t know how to fix any of this.
I press the red button. The light goes dark. The recording device hums once, processing.
And I make a decision.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a memory stick. I navigate to Atlas’s file and copy it.
The transfer takes seconds. The file lives on the memory stick now, separate from the system, private and portable.
Then I go back into the main archive. Find his file again.
I delete the file. The system asks if I’m sure. I click Yes. The file disappears from the main archive, from the backup system, from everywhere except the memory stick in my pocket. I check twice to make sure it’s gone.
Then I stand up, tucking the memory stick carefully into my front pocket. The Airstream needs to be secured for the night, but first, I need to find Atlas.
He’s probably out there somewhere, thinking his confession is now part of the permanent archive. Probably terrified about what happens when his parents listen to it. Spiraling into the same panic I heard in his voice.
He needs to know he can breathe.
I check the equipment one more time, turn off the lamp, and step out into the cool evening air.
This is going to be like finding a needle in a haystack. I remember his voice clearly but have no idea what he looks like.
I’m about to turn toward the building when I notice someone sitting on the bench under the largest pine tree. His head is in his hands, shoulders curved inward like he’s trying to disappear. That has to be him.
I can’t believe I’m about to tell a stranger that I witnessed his most vulnerable moment. There’s no good way to do this.
When I reach the bench, I sit down, leaving space between us.
The wood is cool through my jeans, and the evening air carries the smell of pine and flowers. Unusual for this time of year in Colorado.
Atlas stills when I sit down. His hands drop from his face and he turns his head, startled. In the dim light, his eyes are red-rimmed, his face blotchy from crying. He looks young and exhausted and completely undone.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
“Atlas?” I ask.
He opens his mouth and then closes it again.
“I’m Kai … I heard everything.”
He goes completely still. Even his breathing stops for a second. Then he turns to look at me fully, his eyes wide with shock and panic.
“I’m sorry.” I keep my voice steady, keep eye contact. “I was fixing a cable in the booth. Behind the equipment panel. When you came in, I didn’t want to disturb you, so I stayed quiet. I should have said something. But I didn’t, and then you started talking, and I just … I stayed.”
“You … you heard all of that?”
“Yes. All of it.”
His face goes pale. “Oh god.” He presses his palms against his eyes, shoulders hunching. “Oh god, oh god—”
“Atlas.” I keep my voice gentle but firm. “Listen to me. I deleted the recording from the system. No one else will hear it. It’s gone.”
His hands drop, and he stares at me, disbelief written across every line of his face.
“You … what?”
I reach into my pocket and pull out the memory stick. It sits in my palm, small and innocuous, containing his entire confession. I hold it out toward him.
“I deleted it from the main archive. Completely. Your parents won’t hear it. No one will hear it. But I saved it in case you want it … to remember that you were brave enough to tell the truth.”
He stares at the memory stick like it’s alien. His eyes move from the small plastic drive to my face and back again, searching for the catch, the lie, the thing that makes this make sense.
“Why would you do that? You don’t even know me.”
The answer comes easily because I’ve thought about it in the few minutes since I made the decision. Because it’s the core of everything I believe about this work.
“Because I know what it’s like to need to tell the truth and be terrified of the consequences.”
His expression shifts.
“I thought it would be in the archive. Thought my parents would hear it. Thought I’d just blown up my entire life.”
“I know.” My words come softly. “I heard that in your voice. That’s why I deleted it.”
“Thank you.” His voice is quiet but steady. “What is this?” He gestures toward the travel trailer. “The Airstream thing?”
“It’s called Neighbor Stories. The library funded it. We’re collecting oral histories from the community. Preserving stories before they’re lost.”
His eyebrows draw together. “Oral histories?”
“People’s memories, experiences, perspectives. The stories that make up a community but usually don’t get written down. We record them, archive them, and make them accessible to future generations.”
“And you just … record people?”
“People record themselves, usually. But it’s always their choice. Their stories, their choice how to tell them.”
A flicker crosses his face.
“And it’s all voluntary?”
“Exactly. And if someone records a message and then changes their mind, we delete it. No questions asked.” I lean forward slightly. “The archive belongs to the community. Not to me, not to the library. To the people whose stories are in it.”
He’s quiet, absorbing this. “That’s really different from most historical archives. Usually it’s academics deciding what matters.”
“Yes. Exactly. Traditional archives have gatekeepers. They decide whose stories are important enough to save. But everyone’s story matters.
The general store owner and the teacher and the person who’s lived here sixty years.
Those stories are just as important. More important, maybe, because they’re the ones that usually get lost.”
He studies me for a moment. “Where are you from? You’re not from Pine Ridge originally, are you?”
“Boulder. I worked in academia for a while—university-based oral history program. Then non-profit work, traveling to different communities.” I run my hand through my hair. “But I got tired of the politics. I wanted to do something more direct. More ethical.”
“So you came to Pine Ridge?”
“Six months ago. The library got a grant for community oral history preservation. They were looking for someone to run it, and I was looking for a change.” I pause. “It’s been good. This town … people here care about each other.”
“My dad’s hardware store has been here for sixty-five years. It belonged to my grandfather before him. People are always telling stories when they come in. About building their houses, fixing things.” A small smile crosses his face. “Dad knows everyone’s stories.”
“That’s exactly what this project is about. People like your dad are living archives. They hold the community’s memory. But when they’re gone, those stories go with them unless someone preserves them.”
“Have you interviewed him? My dad?”
“Not yet. But I’d like to. If he’d be willing.”
The smile fades. “I bet he’d love it. He’d probably talk for hours. He and my mom both. This place is their whole world.”
A weight settles in his features.
“I don’t know how to fix any of this,” he says, his voice small. “My life. My situation.”
“You already started. You told the truth. Even if only to a microphone or to yourself. That’s where it begins.”
“But I still have to go back there.” His eyes dart toward the building. “Still have to smile and lie and pretend everything’s fine.”
“For tonight, maybe. But not forever.”
He looks at me sharply. “You think I should tell my parents?”
“I think you should tell someone. When you’re ready. When it feels right. But that’s your choice. Not mine.”
His eyes shine with tears he’s holding back. “I don’t know if I can tell them. I don’t know if I can admit that I failed.”
“You didn’t fail. People lose jobs all the time.”
“Then why does it feel like failure?”
“Because we’ve been taught that success means money and status and climbing higher. But that’s not what success is. Success is being able to look at yourself in the mirror and not hate what you see.”
He wipes at his eyes roughly. “Is that what you do? Look in the mirror and like what you see?”
“Most days. Not always. But more than I did when I was lying to myself.”
We sit in silence.
“If you want, you can come back tomorrow. Re-record something. A real message for your parents, if you want to give them one. Or just talk. Whatever you need.”
He considers this. “I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about any of this.”
“That’s okay. But if you are, I’m here. And whatever you say, it stays between us. Unless you specifically want someone else to hear it.”
“You keep saying that. That it’s my choice. My story.”
“Because it is.”
“Most people don’t think that way.”
“I’m not most people.”
A ghost of a smile crosses his face.
The fairy lights sway in the breeze. The music from the party shifts again, a slow and sweet tune.
“I should go back,” Atlas says, standing up, “before someone sends a search party.”
I stand too.
“Thank you,” he says, and his voice is steadier now. “For deleting the recording. For not telling anyone. For just … being here and listening.”
“Of course.”
“Will you be here tomorrow? At the booth?”
“When there are events at the community center, we use the Airstream. We also take it out to festivals on the town square. Most days I’m at the library, but I can be wherever works for you.”
“I might come by. If that’s okay.”
“Of course it’s okay.”
He starts to walk away, then pauses and turns back.
“Kai?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you were hiding in the booth. I’m glad you heard.” He swallows hard. “Because I think I needed someone to know.”
My stomach unknots. “I’m glad I was there too.”
He nods one final time, then turns and walks across the garden toward the pavilion. I watch him go, watch the way he straightens his shoulders as he gets closer to the light and the people.
I turn back toward the Airstream.
Tomorrow he might come back. Or he might not. He might re-record a message, or he might never mention it again.
That’s his choice. His story.
I try not to think about the way his dark hair fell into his eyes when he looked up at me. Try not to notice that while we spoke, I cataloged details—the slope of his shoulders, the nervous way he ran his thumb over his fingers, the warmth in his eyes when that rare smile broke through.
More than anything, this guy needs a friend. He’s vulnerable, and I’m here to facilitate stories, not to admire the way fairy lights caught the angles of his face.
But for now, I’ve done what I could. I listened. I protected. I showed up.
And sometimes, that’s enough.
Even if a small, unhelpful part of me hopes he comes back tomorrow.