Real silence. The house settled. The furnace kicked in. Normal.
The television in the living room turned on by itself. The volume maxed out. Then dropped to zero. Then came back at half. A channel was changing—not flipping, but scanning, agonizingly slow. It landed on an old black-and-white movie. A man in a fedora was walking away from the camera, into fog.
The remote beeped once. The LED died. The television shut off with a high-pitched whine, shrinking to a single white dot, then nothing. Chunghop Rm-l688 Universal Remote Manual
The man mouthed one word: Help.
He turned to page one. On a whim, he dug through the closet and found the old Sharp television. He plugged it in. Static. The blue screen of oblivion. He pointed the Chunghop at it. Step 2: Hold the ‘SET’ button until the indicator light stays on. He pressed SET. The red LED blinked twice, then glowed steady. Like a heartbeat. Step 3: Enter the 4-digit code for your brand. Arthur flipped to the code list. Page 34: Sharp – 0092, 0753, 1240, 4011. He tried 0092. Nothing. 0753. Nothing. 1240. The TV flickered. The volume bar appeared on screen, sliding up and down on its own. Real silence
Arthur set the Chunghop down on the carpet next to the manual. He didn’t put batteries back in. He didn’t wrap it in a bag. He just left it there, under the shoebox, where his father had kept it.
The LED didn’t blink. It stayed solid. Then it pulsed. Slow. Like a radar. Normal
The TV, however, stayed on. The man in the fedora turned around. His face was a blur of static, but Arthur knew the shape of the jaw. The slope of the shoulders. His father, thirty years younger, stared out from the cathode ray.
Arthur looked down at the manual. Page 42, another scribble: His thumb hovered over the number pad. The static-man on TV reached a hand toward the glass. The Chunghop’s LED began to pulse red, faster and faster, like a panicked heart.