That hurt, too.
The casual acceptance of the propaganda and the news reports that they alone still lived, while all else was death. The willingness to believe that only they were safe and healthy while east of the river nothing but sure death and enemy agents stalked the land. How much will people believe without questioning? Did none of them stop to consider that someone might still be alive over here… that someone was listening to their broadcasts and knowing how false they were? Hadn't it ever occurred to any of them that their programs were being picked up by people who used to be in their world, people who could be hurt as they listened?
What if he had a telephone? Supposing that by some strange means he had a phone and he could casually pick up the receiver and put through a call to the radio station. To ask for a song, say. People did that all the time.
“What?” the surprised announcer would ask.
“I said,” Gary would have to repeat, “that I'm calling from something-or-other Wisconsin, and I want you to play a number.”
“But you can't be!” that disbelieving man would answer him. “There's no life in Wisconsin.”
“There is, and don't believe everything you hear. How about playing Clementine for me? Or maybe, Cruising Down the River? That's a good one these days.”
“I can't, do you hear? I refuse. You're dead, Judson May said you were dead.”
“Upstick Judson May! You going to play me a song or not?”
“This is a trick! There's no one alive on the other side of the river. You're attempting to hoax me!” And he would hang up in anger. Or sudden fear.