Page 10 of The Voice We Find

The twinge of grief is fleeting, but it still takes me a moment to reply.

I’d ask you to save me some, but given you’re not even halfway through camp yet, I won’t be so cruel. You’ll need something to snack on the next time you pass on pizza night.

Gabby:

Urgh. That pizza was foul.??Also, don’t tell Aunt Judy I told you, but she made a batch for you, too. She’s headed your way on Saturday so I asked if she’d mind picking up a few things for me from my closet. I could use an extra pair of shoes.

Gabby:

I’m LOVING it here though (other than the pizza) and I’m learning SO MUCH! I feel like my brain isabsorbing ASL three times faster since the camp is total immersion. Tyler says I’ve picked it up quicker than anyone he’s ever known. Thank you again for letting me come??

Gabby:

What about you? Are you keeping your promise to me? Are you having some real fun?

I blink at her rapid-fire texts, remembering when her team of doctors pulled me aside to tell me they couldn’t be sure how well her brain would recover after the trauma she suffered in the accident. And yet here she is, typing three times faster than I can think and exceeding all the best-case scenarios. Except for one.

When I don’t respond to her last text with super human speed, she sends another.

Gabby:

Auuuguuuussssstttttt????

Fun is relative at my age. Chip is on his way over in a few. We’ll probably grab takeout after we finish up a work project at the studio.

Gabby:

You always get takeout with Chip. So no, that does NOT count.

Gabby:

And what work project?

When did I become so predictable?I take a second to consider how to tell her I’ve taken on a new job since I dropped her at Camp Wilson. What’s the least nerdy way of saying I listen to people read books for a living now?

There’s this new trend in literary entertainment, integrating voice actors into the book world.Chip’s super pumped about it, so I’m helping him out for a while.

Gabby:

You mean like audiobooks?

So, basically, I am exactly the nerd she thinks I am.

I provide her with a thumbs-up emoji, hoping she’ll leave it alone.

Gabby:

Okay, well ... if you don’t send me a pic of you doing something fun soon, I’m gonna send you some pictures of me riding a stallion bareback down a beach without wearing a helmet. Gotta go!

She’s joking, I assure myself. But even still, my pulse kicks up a notch as an unwanted image of my sister endangering herself plays across my mind in slow motion. I tug my studio headphones off, feeling the need to take something apart just so I can put it back together again. I do a quick scan of my work area, looking for such a project, when I notice the takeout box from last night’s dinner sticking out of the too-small trash can. Another bad habit I’ve developed as of late: eating in my studio instead of going into the house, which is only on the other side of the driveway from my remodeled studio. But on the upside, working through dinner has helped me log more hours in my new side hustle as I flag mouth pops, slurred words, harsh consonants, and weird exhales, and take note of any area that needs to be rerecorded.

I’ve found that pumping myself full of caffeine helps me stay focused on the reader, rather than on the sound effects I can imagine adding to each scene—wind instruments, percussion, and some creeping bass notes for dramatic intrigue. Maybe in the same way I can hear music where it doesn’t exist, a reader can create connections to characters who also don’t exist. What a bizarre thought.

I drain the last of my drink and toss the can into the overflowing recycle bin near my thinking couch. I should probably take that out. Otherwise it might actually look like I have a problem.

I glance at the clock above the recording booth and note that I have approximately fifteen minutes before Chip arrives with a local narrator he’s looking to contract. He asked me to record a fifteen-minute demo he can send to his author for approval. My hesitant agreement came with the caveat ofjust this once, as I don’t wish to make a habit out of hosting story hour in my one and only equipped recording booth reserved for musicians. It’s one thing for him to send me the raw cuts of his narrators. It’s another to have them invade my personal space. In the future, I’d love to outfit a second booth as the space is already framed in, but at the moment, it’s nothing more than a storage closet.

With the overloaded recycle bin gripped in my right hand, I head to the door, throw it open, and bump the bin directly into a pair of legs. Decidedly female legs. There’s only a fraction of a second to ponder this as our bodies collide and then promptly bounce apart, sending a spray of cans through the air like confetti in the process.

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