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.
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TRANSCRIPT
[click on] Ugh…
[click, static]
Jesus Christ. I–
[click, static]
The last time I had a hangover, I believe I was twenty-eight years old. I’m not twenty-eight anymore. 
Not that I’m old–least, I don’t feel it. Sure, maybe in a usual circumstance I’d be well into suburban adult life or something. Maybe. Probably not. I was never the get hitched and have kids type. Folks in my line of work usually don’t–
[click, static]
Ughhh god, I don’t even know if I can drive today. My head is pounding. Guess it wouldn’t hurt to spend a day just…resting. I’ve been driving most of the day for the past week after years of barely driving at all. 
It’s been harder on my body than I thought it’d be. Though I guess that might be the after effects of bourbon talking.
[click, static]
I guess I’m not used to sitting down for so much of the day. Those first few years after everything happened, it took a lot to find a spot we’d be safe in and then to set that place up. By the time we got everything running smoothly, I’d forgotten what it was like to sit still. 
Not that I did much of that before. My life has always been taken up moving around, fixing things, breaking things.
I had to learn how to garden these past six years. 
[click, static]
Who am I kidding. Harry did most of that stuff. I figured out how to butcher chickens I guess. Chop wood. Fix the roof. Rewire the house. 
It’s not like I had a purpose really. Other than keeping myself alive and trying not to strangle Harry every time she wasted a ton of flour trying to reengineer a goddamned croquembouche she had in Paris in 1962 from memory. That no-good pretentious—
[click, static]
I can’t figure out if I have less of a purpose now or more of one. I’m still trying to keep myself alive, though I’ve gotten pretty good at that. And there’s not as much…hazard, on the road, as I expected. I’ve got enough food to last me…months, probably. Water’s a toss up sometimes but boiling works in a pinch. As long as I can find gas, I’m good to drive around indefinitely. 
Which, you know…
[click, static]
Is that a life? Has any of this been? I wasn’t expecting to get past our driveway and find that the whole world had gone back to a normal, civilized society–I’m not even sure I would’ve wanted that. The fear of it is half the reason we never tried to contact anyone–
[click, static]
But there’s gotta be something–someone–out here somewhere. There’s no way in hell that Harry and I are the only two people who survived…whatever it was. 
So, once again, I’m begging–if you can hear this. Come and find me. I’m at a little house with a red door off Route 33, take left at the bridge and then the third right you come to. I’ll stay a few days, take a beat, and wait.
[click, static]
And just to be clear, if you come here and try something I don’t like, well…as I said, I have a lot of experience in breaking things. 
Alright, Whiskey out. 
[click, static]
[beeps]