Full Voice

Tibor Kaczmarek took the Dare Stack’s stairwell two steps at a time, past the green tape on every join, to the landing where nobody sleeps.

“THREE,” Tibor roared. “TWO. ONE.”

The stairwell rang all the way to the roof. Somewhere above, one of the Hoist threw a boot down, kindly, and missed.

Tibor is the loudest crier on the Way. Since late September the whole street has talked at a whisper, resting its voice for the cheer at the first frost, and Tibor has whispered along with everyone else. It sits in the chest like a sneeze that won’t come. So every night Tibor climbs up here and lets it out, just to check it’s still there. Tibor is afraid of one small thing: that a voice kept in long enough forgets how to come out.

It was still there. Tibor went down to the Corner for the first count, pleased with it.

The newcomers were making their small calls at the mic, one after another, at a whisper. Each of them called a dark post on the Long Bend, lit by morning, and went off down the steps to do it.

Scout came the other way, up from the old road, hoarse and cheerful, and sat down on the kerb beside Tibor.

“It’s long out there tonight,” Scout said. “Your newcomers are whispering at the posts, out of habit, I think. On a dark stretch you want very badly to sit down. Somebody out there needs to be loud.”

Tibor looked at the mic. The cheer at the frost is the loudest morning of the year, and Tibor has waited all autumn for it. A crier’s voice does not last a week of cold nights on the road.

Tibor stood up and went to the mic anyway.

“Three, two, one,” the counter breathed.

“Every night to Wednesday,” Tibor whispered, “I shout the Long Bend.”

Then Tibor went down the steps and out past the Sleeve Post to the first dark post, and filled their chest.