Carl’s greasy hair fell over his sunken eyes. The bags underneath darkened with each minute.
His computer was the only light in the room as he edited the recording, just ten feet from the booth where the voice actor articulated it earlier.
Carl grew lightheaded as time passed, either from exhaustion or the new plaster and paint.
The weekend was busy. He guessed Bradley had moved the renovation timeline up to allow for the family vacation his wife scheduled behind his back.
Guess she got tired of late nights at the studio.
He shook his head and wiped a hand down his face before pushing his hair back. Carl took the last bite of his cheddar cheese sandwich. He crinkled the parchment paper, aiming for the waste basket, and missed. It settled among the day’s other missed shots.
The track on the screen had little sound hills between the primary sentences. This clip contained a lot of blips. Usually, Carl deleted them, since it may be the talent breathing, smacking lips, or sighing. With this many, Carl was compelled to play one.
It was low but recognizable. A word. Like a hum or whisper.
Carl increased the volume to make it a peak, and replayed it.
“Still.”
The voice muffled, robotic like a GPS, but it was there.
Carl rolled his eyes.
The talent is not supposed to take their phone in the booth.
He tapped delete. He knew this edit would be long, even without Bradley’s impromptu stop by the office to “check in on things,” and comment about deleting the hills when Carl has been doing this long before Bradley bought the company.
Carl grabbed the script on the table and pressed play.
The next few lines had no issues, but as Carl glanced ahead, another hill appeared.
He let this one play.
“Hear,” the muffled GPS voice said.
Carl straightened, as the mouse moved across the screen.
In the original file, he found many previously deleted hills. This time, Carl cut all the words between the hills.
After isolating eight hills and raising their volume, he pressed play to test his theory.
“Still,” the voice said.
Then an intake of breath from the talent.
“Alive. Me.”
A sigh, intake of breath, and another sigh.
“Stand,” the voice said.
Carl grabbed his phone; it was 9:00pm. The twenty-something talent would most likely be awake. He scrolled to the talent’s number.
Fur Elise resonated from the phone basket by the booth door.
The talent had left it.
Hanging up, Carl set his phone down and walked into the booth. The new paint smell was stronger than in the studio.
Carl shrugged before he called out, “Hello?”
After a few seconds, he shook his head and stepped back to the studio.
He stood at his computer, opened a new file, and pressed record.
Little hills flowed across the screen, captured by the sensitive microphone.
After the longest thirty seconds of his life, Carl boosted the volume and let it play from the beginning.
“… still here. I’m alive. Can anyone hear me? Help me. I can’t stand. It’s small,” the voice said.
Carl grabbed a portable microphone, connecting it to the headset that rested on the booths stand.
When he was absolutely still, he could hear the faint robotic voice through the headphones.
“I can hear you!” Carl said. “I’m trying to find you!” It was loud enough it hurt his own ears.
The audio ceased.
Carl held the microphone toward the ceiling and it started again.
“I’m still here.”
“I need more sound to find you,” Carl said.
“I’m still here,” it repeated.
Again.
And again.
A pause, only a second or two, between the confirmations of life.
Carl held the microphone close to the wall as he circled the room.
The sound was loudest behind the skinny metal podium.
Carl removed the headphones. He peeled the black foam soundproofing from the wall, above the baseboard. Plaster squelched as it strung between the wall and foam.
The fumes grew, but Carl focused.
“Keep talking,” he said.
The robotic voice continued, and Carl heard it without the headphones as well as he did with.
He didn’t care what the voice said anymore, he just knew it continued. His fingers pressed through the wet layer.
He reached behind him for the metal stand. His fingers gripped the black metal and used it like a battering ram.
Rams turned to swings until a waist-high dollar sized hole formed.
“I’m still here,” the voice said again, at a conversation volume.
Carl dropped the mangled podium and used his hands to widen the hole.
His fingers touched something unlike rock, but to peel back the plaster he had to squeeze between the object and the interior side of the wall.
Inside the wall, crouched, was a girl. Knees to her chest and arms pinned between them, she held a cell which played typed messages.
Indentions and splattered dried plaster across her jeans and exposed arms where she pressed against the wall. Her sleeveless tank top was low cut, but protected her core.
Carl reached for her when the hole was big enough.
The girl dropped her phone into her bra, freeing her hands.
Specs of plaster fell from her hair and clothes as Carl pulled her out.
Her body shook and wouldn’t stand upright.
Carl held her by her elbows. Dried pieces in her hair turned the blonde, grey. Despite the color change, Carl knew this girl was barely eighteen if not younger.
He pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around her.
“Are you okay?” he said, trying to look her in the eye.
The girl nodded.
“What happened?”
The girl shakily formed her hands into different shapes and movements.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know sign language,” he said.
Pulling out her phone, she tapped at the screen.
The robotic voice spoke once again, “I remember drinking with my boyfriend.”
One of the construction workers? Eric from overnight?
“He owns the studio.”