The phone booth is slowly getting old.
The plans were to put it to use at least once a day. The truth is more like that of the objects all around - done for and never to be used, if not by a few stray cats or other unexpected visitors.
If it weren't for the director, half of the cables would be long gone, consumed by rust or the teeth of mice. He still wants the booth to be functional; he needs it, just in case, in spite of the stale metal and the smell that surrounds it.
There might always be something new. Especially now, the time of year in which communications flow from the edge of town, and right there - among the discarded remains of many homes and lives - a new tangle of events is coming to light.
Most things are dead in the junkyard. Except for colours and rare gushes of wind, few things move. Nonetheless, something is going down tonight; something very much alive, and very deeply involved in deaths.
Not a soul ever visits this forsaken place - but the night that is just beginning is going to change this, and in more than one way.