In the summer of 2008, I found a vinyl record in a thrift store outside Creston, Ohio—a town so small the main street ends in a cornfield. The label said 'Side B' in someone's handwriting. I bought it for a dollar. I didn't own a turntable then. But the record followed me. Through three moves, a breakup, a cross-country drive. It was always in the last box I unpacked, always facedown. When I finally got a turntable, I put it on one night in late October. The needle hit the groove and I heard a woman's voice—not music, not a story. She was talking to someone. And she was afraid. This is the story of that night, and the thing I heard that I can't unhear.
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