Source A: The red light

At the community radio station, the producer placed a sheet of paper in front of me and pointed to the red light above the microphone. I had volunteered to read the notices, but the light made the small room feel like a theatre. My name on the sheet looked like somebody else’s. I knew the words; I had read them aloud at home until they sounded ordinary. Here, each one seemed to wait for me to get it wrong.

The producer counted down with his fingers. I began too quickly. The first notice ran into the second, and I heard my breath scrape the microphone. Then I stopped. The red light stayed on. No one rushed to fill the silence. I looked again at the sheet and found the line about the Saturday repair workshop. I read it slowly, leaving room between the details. By the final notice, I could hear the ends of my sentences instead of the panic between them.

When the light went dark, the producer smiled and said the notices had gone out clearly. I folded the sheet into quarters and put it in my pocket. Outside, the bus was already pulling away. I watched it disappear, then walked the longer route home. I told myself I was practising the announcements in my head. At the next crossing, I caught myself speaking one aloud.