Snow clung stubbornly to the shade of the pines as the convoy wound down the last hill into Whitefish. The afternoon sun was weak, barely a smear of gold through a sky gone pale with cold. Thane eased the lead truck onto Main Street, tires crunching through crusted frost. The small town opened up before them — neat blocks, a clock tower, and the old City Hall with its faded red brick and green copper trim.
Marta leaned forward in her seat, eyes scanning the storefronts. “Quieter than Eureka.”
Gabriel tapped the half-open window glass lightly with one claw. “Smells like coffee and sawdust. That’s a good sign.”
Behind them, Mark’s truck rumbled up, Holt and Rime perched in the back among crates of cables and tool cases. Townsfolk stepped out from doorways, cautious but curious. No one ran, and that alone spoke to how far the world had come.
Thane parked in front of the City Hall steps. “Alright,” he said, cutting the engine. “Let’s see if they’ve still got a heartbeat.”
A man in a thick wool coat emerged from the double doors, gray beard flecked with snow. His posture said he wasn’t afraid, just careful. “Afternoon,” he called, voice carrying easily. “You folks from Libby?”
Marta smiled and offered her hand as they met at the steps. “Marta Korrin, Mayor of Libby. This is Thane, and my crew — Gabriel, Mark, Holt, and Rime.”
The man shook her hand and nodded to Thane, eyes flicking briefly over the claws, the fur, the weight of him. “Henry Dawes,” he said. “I sit on what’s left of the Whitefish council. Heard about what you did in Eureka. Thought maybe it was just a story.”
Thane smiled. “Then you’re about to get the sequel.”
Dawes chuckled at that. “Come on in. You’ll want to see what we’ve still got running.”
The City Hall was warmer than most they’d visited, heated by a big wood stove near the main hallway. The walls carried old photos — fishing contests, parades, grinning faces from a quieter century. Inside an office behind the reception counter, a row of beige phones sat waiting on desks like patient old dogs.
Thane crouched to look under the counter and grinned. “AT&T Partner 208,” he said. “Eight extensions, four lines. Good shape.”
Mark whistled low. “These things were workhorses.”
Dawes rubbed his neck, half-apologetic. “We kept ‘em plugged in even after the power went out for good. Habit, I guess. Never could bring myself to toss them.”
Marta glanced around. “And now they’ll finally earn their keep again.”
Thane ran a claw along the power cord. “We’ll give her a sip of solar and see if she remembers how to hum.”
The equipment closet smelled of dust and cold metal. Inside, the Partner 208’s small plastic cabinet hung on the wall, its once-cream color gone soft with age. He connected it to a battery inverter and flipped the switch.
The red LEDs blinked once, then steadied. From the outer office came a sharp series of beeps as the phones powered up.
“Tone,” Thane said softly, half to himself. “Good girl.”
Mark crouched beside him, holding a worn binder of wiring diagrams. “System’s still tied into the old CO trunks through that wall conduit. I can almost guarantee those pairs are still running back to the switch.”
“Then we’re halfway done,” Thane said. “We’ll just have to find the right lines.”
Dawes blinked, trying to follow. “The right lines?”
Thane gestured toward the back of the building. “The cables that go to Libby, Spokane, and Kalispell. Each town still has its own connection through the central office. We don’t need to string anything new — just wake the old lines up.”
“You can do that?”
Thane smiled. “I used to work for the phone company before the world went to hell. Trust me, those copper pairs are tougher than cockroaches.”
Holt, waiting near the hall, puffed out his chest. “Cockroach strong. Good.”
Gabriel grinned. “We’ll put that on your business card.”
Rime cocked his head. “What is business card?”
“Never mind,” Gabriel said, laughing.
Thane slung his tool bag over one shoulder. “Let’s visit the CO.”
The Whitefish central office sat two blocks away, a squat concrete building half-buried under ivy and time. The front door creaked open with a reluctant groan. Inside, the smell of cold metal and old oil hit immediately — familiar, nostalgic.
Rows of equipment lined the room like sleeping giants: tall racks of relay frames, cross-connect panels, and cable runs vanishing through the floor. Dust lay thick, but the bones were all there.
Thane stood still for a moment, listening. “You hear that?”
Mark frowned. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Exactly,” Thane said. “Means it’s waiting.”
He crossed to the main punch block, brushing away a decade of cobwebs with one hand. The labels were faded, but still readable in ghostly ink. LIBBY TRUNK. SPOKANE TRUNK. KALISPELL TRUNK.
Thane traced the pair with a gentle touch. “We’ll use these.”
He pulled a small hand tester from his pocket and clipped the leads. The tone probe gave a low chirp, soft but definite.
“Libby line’s still alive,” he said. “There’s your first heartbeat.”
“Holy hell,” Mark whispered. “After all this time.”
“Copper remembers,” Thane said again. “Always does.”
Rime stood near the door, tail flicking. “Feels like church.”
“Same reverence,” Gabriel said, smiling faintly.
They patched the lines carefully, bridging Libby’s trunk into Line 1 of the Partner system, Spokane into Line 2, and Kalispell into Line 3. When Thane finished the last punch, he stepped back and wiped a streak of dust off his muzzle.
“That’ll do,” he said. “Let’s go wake the council.”
Back in City Hall, a small crowd had gathered in the hall — maybe thirty townsfolk, some sitting on the benches, others standing near the door. Word had traveled fast. Even Dawes’s teenage son had shown up, holding a notebook like he might need to take notes on a miracle.
Thane picked up the phone on the front desk, pressed Line 1 and handed the phone to mator Dawes. The ring tone pulsed clear and clean, echoing softly off the tile floor.
Hank’s voice came faint and bright through the handset. “Libby PD here.”
Dawes’s breath caught audibly. “This is Whitefish,” he said, half-disbelieving. “Can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” he said. “Welcome to the network.”
The crowd outside the office began to cheer, clapping and laughing. Thane motioned for Dawes to keep going.
“Hold on,” Thane said. “Try Line 2.”
He pressed the second button, and the ring started again. A few seconds later, a different voice answered.
“Spokane here. Is that Whitefish?”
“It is,” Dawes said, grinning now. “Good to meet you!”
“You too. Damn fine to have another light on the board.”
Thane hit Line 3, testing Kalispell. After a long pause, the ring tripped and a woman’s voice came through, breathless with surprise.
“This is Kalispell Council. Who’s calling?”
“Whitefish,” Dawes said. “And Libby and Spokane are listening too. You’re not alone anymore.”
Marta’s voice joined in. “Three towns connected. Four, now. You’ve made the network whole.”
Applause filled the room. Holt wagged his tail so hard it thumped the wall. Rime blinked slowly, ears tipped forward in something close to wonder.
Outside, the noise spilled through the open doors. People in the street craned to hear the voices echoing faintly from the hall — three towns speaking across the valley, alive again.
Gabriel grinned. “Sounds like the world’s breathing again.”
Dawes handed the phone to his son, who held it carefully, reverently, as if it might bite. “Say hello,” he urged.
The boy swallowed and said softly, “Hi, Kalispell.”
A laugh came through the line. “Hello there. You sound young for a councilman.”
“Not yet,” the boy said. “But maybe someday.”
By evening, City Hall had become a small celebration. Someone brought soup. Someone else found a bottle of homemade cider and passed it around. The phones on each desk sat glowing gently, all lines lit.
Marta leaned against the counter, talking quietly with Dawes about trade routes and coordination times. Gabriel plucked a soft melody on his guitar while Holt pretended to guard the phones, wagging his tail every time one of them rang.
Rime, perched near the window, listened with a faint smile. “World loud again,” he said.
“Yeah,” Thane answered. “But it’s the good kind of loud.”
Marta looked around the room — the people, the wolves, the faint hum of old technology alive again. “That’s the sound of civilization,” she said.
They camped behind City Hall that night, the air sharp and quiet except for distant laughter from the square. Marta had her small tent with a cot; the wolves shared one big canvas beside the trucks. Holt and Rime argued softly about blanket space until Gabriel muttered something about “furry toddlers” and pulled his own over his head.
At some point, one of them broke wind loud enough to shake the fabric.
“Not me,” Holt said instantly.
“Was you,” Rime replied.
“Wind.”
“Inside tent?”
Thane groaned. “Every. Single. Trip.”
From her tent, Marta’s voice floated across the cold. “If that tent collapses, you’re rebuilding it before sunrise!”
“Understood,” Thane called.
The laughter carried long into the night.
Morning broke clean and cold. Frost rimed the windows of City Hall. Dawes and his son were already inside when Thane came in to test the lines. The boy was on the phone again, talking to someone in Libby about the weather.
“All three lines check out,” Thane said. “You’re officially online.”
Dawes turned, smiling. “How can we ever repay you?”
Thane shook his head. “Just keep the lines open. Talk often. Don’t let the silence come back.”
Marta joined him, scarf wrapped tight around her neck. “That’s what this is all about — not the wires, the people on the other end.”
Gabriel grinned from the doorway. “And maybe a little about showing off our engineering skills.”
“Mostly that,” Thane said dryly.
They loaded the trucks, said their goodbyes, and rolled out of town as the sun cleared the trees. Behind them, the windows of City Hall caught the light, glowing gold.
Half a mile out, Thane looked in the side mirror and saw a man in the doorway of city hall, phone pressed to his ear, waving as he talked.
“Who’s he calling?” Gabriel asked.
Thane smiled faintly. “Doesn’t matter. Somebody who’s listening.”
The convoy turned east toward Libby, the valley behind them humming with new life.
For the first time since the world fell apart, four towns could reach each other by name.
And for the wolves heading home, that was more than enough.