Cecil can't hold back a disbelieving laugh. "Radio!" It's such an old-fashioned word-- such a provincial word. It was already well on its way out when he was a kid-- replaced years ago by the faster, more convenient, far more easily controlled network. "I've never worked for any radio station. I know it's dark in here, but I don't look that old, do I?"

...A thought strikes him. Maybe he's been thinking too much within the realm of possibility here. In the sudden and unfamiliar dark, it's natural, perhaps, to assume instantly the most logical misunderstanding-- to assume that this person is simply a misinformed listener who spent a little more time at the beverage table than he needed to, or a confused scientist with a bad memory for faces. But the world is different now - there is room for new assumptions, a realm of possibility that never existed before, another world's worth of people that this stranger could be. And it didn't even occur to me. For shame, Cecil.

Cecil squints. In the reflected beam of the flashlight, he can make out the vague shape of a face, and curly hair; dark hands (human, he notes-- not a guarantee anymore), wearing... white? He wishes the lights would come on.

"...Say, Carlos-- It's Carlos, right?" he says, and his tone is suddenly somewhat warmer, a little more understanding. "You're... not from around here, are you?"