By Amber Strong

Her granddaughter was furious with her for protesting.

"Just a radio then, something to keep you company." but she refused. She didn't need any company. Her wall could talk and they would entertain her. Her granddaughter thought she was crazy, but her granddaughter was never there at night when the walls would awake from their sleep.

Her bedroom walls were her favorite. They were spies. She would lie in bed at night and listen to them argue. Sometimes there would be gunfire and she wouldn't be able to sleep, but she forgave them because they were young. She could tell, because their voices sounded like a boyfriend she had before the war. She liked her kitchen walls too, because they sung to her while she baked. Young people's music mostly, but sometimes they would hum an old familiar song and she would sway while she cooked.

Her bathroom walls, however, she despised. They were completely stuck up. They spoke in whispers so the only thing she could hear was their mocking laughter. Still, with all these companions who needs a radio. Once again, she shushed her granddaughter, refused the small compact object in her hands, and pushed her gently towards the door. Then she sat by the window in her rocking chair, picked up her sewing, and patiently waited for night to come.