Late October, a Thursday night, nineteen ninety-seven. Luna is alone at the switchboard on Flint Road when a line comes in that refuses to disconnect. The caller is a woman named Eleanor, her voice thin and frayed, saying she's at a payphone outside the old Flint Road Market — a place that burned down six years ago. Luna tries to reason with her, but Eleanor keeps talking about the light in the market's basement, a light that never went out even after the fire. Luna patches her through to the sheriff's office, but the deputy who picks up says there's no one at that payphone — just a dead line and a humming receiver. And all night, that one bulb on Luna's switchboard stays lit, glowing red, no way to put it out. A story about the lines that hold, long after the places on the other end are gone.