The rotor spun lazily around in a circle, sputtering every third rotation. Tom knew it was every third rotation because he had nothing to do except sit and watch the helicopter waste gas. The noise and the heat reminded him of the times when he used to mow lawns in the summer. It had grated on him then and still grated on him now.

“Is it getting faster?” Carl called from cockpit.

Tom counted the rotation as he walked two fingers up the doorway. “No.”

Carl mumbled something that Tom didn’t catch and then added, “What about the radio?”

“What about?”

“Is it working yet either?”

Wires trailed out the window to a blanket that held a partially assembled radio.

Tom groaned and hopped down. As far as he could tell, nothing had changed. Three days had passed and they were still stuck. “Nope, still dead.”

Static and broken words blared from the speaker. “ZZZ-nyone at all—ZZZ—ZZZ—crashed—ZZZ—”

“Hey whatever you did worked!” Tom yelled. He fell to the ground and held the radio up to his face. “Do it again!”