Randolph heard the drums in the distance. Hippie noise pollution he thought then listened. Hidden in the chaos of clamber was something that didn’t fit. A rhythm that wasn’t one. Randolph climbed the path up the hill towards the noise. In the little meadow on the other side he saw the drum circle banging away. He stood looking down on them listening for what was wrong. Soon the drummers started trading solos and the fifth soloist was the one. No simple banging the bongos. She was sending a message. So simple. Three short, three long, three short. Morse code. S.O.S.