âIn 1861, Johann Reis turned sound into electrical signals and sent them a hundred meters away. A hundred meters is an abstract thing to me. At sixteen, I knew a Luger P08 could shoot fifty meters, that the safe distance for a lookout was thirty-five, and that the distance between you and me was five millimeters.â
âOur beginning was separated by thick laminated prison glass and distorted electronic voices. I never really understood how sound traveled through that old intercom. That day, all I knew was that it had come from very, very far away.â
âWalkie-talkies have obvious limits. They canât be in your pocket, under your pillow, in the palm of your hand. When you left, it felt like everything was over. When one end of the medium becomes a vacuum, all transmission becomes powerless.â
âAnd yet itâs undeniable â it was one of the most far-reaching inventions of the nineteenth century. When I appear before you again, compared to your memory of me, does my voice sound just as off-key and warped?â
âAfter that, our distance behaved like a spring. Again and again, our conversations had to pass through that black box, be simulated a second time before reaching each otherâs ears. Or else, they vanished into voicemail.â
âHey, I listened to the voicemails. Well, maybe not every single one. No one catches them all.â
âOh â sorry. Maybe you only received eighty-three percent of mine. I donât mind. Truly.â
âIn any case, weâve settled now. We even have video calls. We no longer have to wobble toward each other on a hundred-meter wire like tightrope walkers. Still, there are times you have to make a call.â