The Click Track

Letter 39 of the Book of Forgetting

The old well stood grey against the fog. Ivo Segal came up the path at 4:03, his radio clipped to his shoulder. Liesl Kfir was already there, her canvas bag open on the stone lip, the headphones in her hands.

“You're late,” she said.

“Two minutes.” Ivo stopped at the edge. “You have the click track ready?”

“In my pouch.” She held up the small player. “Three runs. You drop the stone, you speak the cue. I count clicks. You time.”

“I'll drop the stone,” Ivo said. “You already know your own count. If the delay follows my cue, then it's not just you—it's the place.”

“Deal. But if it follows the stone, you'll come to the Council with me tonight, not tomorrow.”

“If it follows the stone, I'll go.” Ivo picked up a stone from the ground, weighed it in his hand. “But I still hope it's just your hearing, Liesl. For your sake.”

“For your sake, I hope it's not. Because if it's the well, then it's the fog, and then it's Ophir's words. You can't hide from that.”

Ivo said nothing. He dropped the stone. The splash came clean off the water below. He spoke: “Now.”

Liesl's finger moved against her thigh, counting clicks. Her lips moved. She held up a hand.

“There,” she said. “After your voice. Not after the splash.”

Ivo looked at his stopwatch. “My watch says clean. No second sound.”

“Run it again.”

They ran it twice more. Both times, Liesl heard the second sound after Ivo's voice. Both times, his stopwatch stayed clean.

Ivo set the stopwatch on the stone lip. He stood there a long moment.

“You heard it three times,” he said.

“I did.”

“And my watch heard nothing.”

“Your watch doesn't hear,” Liesl said. “It times. And it times what you tell it to.”

Ivo picked up his stopwatch, turned it over in his hand. “Then what do I tell the Council? That I stood here and heard nothing while you heard everything?”

“You tell them what you saw. I'll tell them what I heard. Let them decide.”

Ivo was quiet. The fog held its grey light over the well.

“Ophir said the fog is just fog,” he said finally. “He said it in his sleep, and he meant it when he woke.”

“Ophir's not here,” Liesl said. “You are. And you promised.”

Ivo clipped his radio back to his shoulder. “Alright. Let's go.”

---

At the survey post at the end of the north road, Zipporah Gefen had her tape stretched along the wall. Garrin Zohar came up the road at 4:41, his patrol jacket unbuttoned.

“Garrin,” Zipporah said. “I've counted this wall twice now. Survey says six blocks. My tape says seven. You patrol here every day—how many do you count?”

“I don't count blocks, Zip.” Garrin stopped at the pillar. “I count steps. And my steps have been steady for forty years.”

“But the rangefinder—it read 212 going out and 196 coming back. That's not a step. That's a machine.”

“Machines can drift. I've seen it. But a wall doesn't change its blocks.”

“Then why does my tape show seven?” Zipporah pulled the tape taut. “And the baby—she said the same words I dreamed. 'The fog does not measure the same twice.'”

Garrin looked at her. “Babies repeat what they hear. You probably said it in your sleep.”

“I didn't say it to her. I never said it to anyone.” Zipporah let the tape go slack. “But here's the thing—if the fog line moves with the measurer, then your patrol and my tape might be seeing different walls.”

“That's a strange thought.” Garrin picked up the rangefinder, aimed at the pillar. “But let's test it. You count your blocks, I'll walk my patrol, and we'll compare numbers on the spot.”

“And if they don't match?”

“Then we've got a real question for the board.” Garrin set the rangefinder down. “And I'll have to write it down.”

Zipporah nodded. She walked to the wall, her tape in her hand. Garrin began to pace, his steps steady along the fog line. The fog held its grey light over both of them.