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Ok ay .” He whistled. “I’m going in the booth.” He pointed backwards then walked out.
    Bret shrugged off his ‘I could care less’ attitude and planned what she was going to say.
    The show started as usual: Music to news, then finally the actual ‘talking’ portion began somewhere around one AM. Ab out that time of night, listener calls were minimal , and Bret was able to give attention to anyone who happened to be awake. Never did the lines illuminate with passion.
    It was Monday, the slowest night of the week, and there hadn’t been a single call. Bret glanced at the board, and all twelve lines were blank. Coffee in tow, she began.
    “All right, and we’re back. Before I started taking calls tonight, I want to share something with my listeners, in hopes that maybe some of you may have had similar experien ces, or can explain this. Today… today was weird for me. I won’t mention what led up to the incident, but wait until you hear.”
    Then Bret shared the horrific tale of her ant trauma and the outcome.
     
***
    As promised, Chuck Wright had his radio tuned into Bret’s broadcast. If asked, Chuck would always say that Bret brought a smile back to his life after his tragedy. She made him laugh the way she gave her God ly advice. Chuck knew Bret well which made the show that much more enjoyable. He found humor instead of finding God the way that his family had hoped. It helped him and his attitude was better than the ‘God wh o? ’ outlook the forty-two year old man had when his world came tumbling down.
    Chuck was multi tasking—as he called it—speakerphone on, driving, half listening to Bret, taking notes.
    Chuck snickered.
    “Who is that talking in the car?” George, on the phone, asked Chuck.
    “That’s the radio. My friend Bret. She’s talking bugs or something.” Chuck said. “God, I hope she doesn’t dedicate another hour segment to lice again.”
    “Why? Make you itchy?” George asked.
    “Me? No. I’m black. Black people don’t get lice.”
    “That’s right,” George said. “Hey, don’t you think it’s ironic? She’s talking about bugs, you’re going to Erie for that story.”
    Chuck blinked and stuttered as he responded , “Um, yeah. Yeah it is.”
    “What is she saying about bugs?” George questioned.
    “I don’t know. I’ve been talking to you.”
    “Maybe it’s related.”
    “Doubtful,” Chuc k said. “I mean we were just on line fifteen minutes ago. She would have said something if it was that big.”
    “Why don’t you listen? You never know.”
    “I can do that. I’ll call you when I get to Erie.” Chuck disconnected the call and reached for the radio. As soon as he did, he heard it.
    “The colony goes down at least five or six feet deep.” Bret said. “They haven’t a clue how far width - wise. Can you believe that many ants?”
    Chuck had to stop himself from slamming on the brakes as he drove d o w n the highway. “Shit.” He hurriedly hit the turn signal, while speaking out loud in the car. “Yeah, Bret. Uh, I would think that was something you would tell me.” Shaking his head, he pulled over. Lifting the phone, Chuck dialed the direct number to Bret at the station.
    David answered.
    “David, this is Chuck Wright. Is it possible to speak to Bret, or to put me through to her show?”
    “No can do, Chuck.” David said. “Her lines are lit up. She has a ton of calls about this.”
    Chuck exhaled. “I thought so. Hey, do me a favor.”
    “If I can.”
    “Oh, you can. I know you type up the caller name, area, and reason for call. Can you save me a log of all that?”
    “Why?”
    Chuck grunted. “It goes with a story I’m working on.”
    “Y ou’re working on a story about a nts?”
    “Amongst other things.”
    “Does Bret know?” David asked.
    “Nope, because she failed to mention this to me. Tell her I called and please save that log.”
    “Want me to fax it? ”
    “I’d love you for it.”
    “Why don’t you give Jesse a