I’ll be there on time and I’ll pay the cost,

For wanting things that can only be found,

In the darkness on the edge of town.

-Bruce Springsteen, “Darkness on the Edge of Town”

7

I was not looking forward to telling Omar our radio station was gone. I had put the conversation off for nearly two weeks. He was my producer on my garage radio show, which basically means he ran the show so I could do my DJ thing. He’d take calls (meaning he’d hold his cell phone up to my mic when a caller made a song request), keep an eye on the time, and sometimes I’d even let him pick music. He’d come up with cool ideas for the show, too; one time we made up a bunch of new swear words and decided on-air what they meant. Nothing too nasty, just nonsense stuff like “fungburglar,” which is a person who steals and eats beans exclusively. He was just as emotionally attached to A-N-D-Y as I was.

Cell phones do not work in Painter’s Brush. The prevailing theory is that there is a flying saucer buried underneath the junkyard on Dry Springs Road. Sometimes you can get a bar or two, so texting and messaging sorta works, but you can’t depend on a text getting delivered right away unless both the sender and receiver are on Wi-Fi. There’s also not great Internet service out here, which means Wi-Fi calling is pretty spotty, too. So, everyone in Painter’s Brush still has landlines and talk on them like it’s froggin’ 1994. I grabbed the cordless phone and plopped in the recliner. Two rings and Omar’s mother, Frieda Olmeda, picked up. She was sweet and she and my Mom were friends, which is how I met Omar. She teaches kindergarten at a county elementary school. She’s short and cuddly and has rosy cheeks and wears the cutest dresses. I’ve never seen her not wearing a dress. She plants kisses on everyone she likes, especially Omar. She showers Omar in cute little Mom kisses.

I politely introduced myself and she said “hello, sweetheart!” in her cute northern-Mexican accent. She got Omar on the phone for me. His “Hello” already sounded suspicious. I decided to play it cool.

“Hey, buddy, just calling to see how you are!” I said.

“That’s not what I heard,” he said. “Word is that you’ve been grounded for forever after the Army hauled off our radio station,” he said. I didn’t like starting this conversation at a disadvantage, but I was relieved I wouldn’t have to actually break the news to him. I could handle being yelled at. I don’t think I could have handled breaking his heart.

“Okay, both of those things are exaggerated,” I said, holding an indignant finger in the air even though Omar couldn’t see it. “I was grounded for two-point-five weeks, and it was the FCC. They can’t arrest me. They said it, themselves.” I said.

“I know. I just exaggerated so you’d correct me and admit all that,” he said in an infuriating I’m-smarter-than-you tone. “And I am not looking to get non-arrested or whatever the FCC can actually do to me.”

“That’s fine. I would never want to implicate you in my crimes. We are Mad Scientists for life,” I said, doing my best flirking. If you don’t know what flirking is, it’s like flirting, but instead of trying to get romantic with the other person, you’re getting them get all gushy about your friendship. You’re Ferris Bueller-ing your Cameron. Pooh-ing your Piglet. Flirking started out as one of the made-up swear words, but we couldn’t help making it wholesome, instead.

Omar sighed. “What do you need from me? What exactly am I getting myself into?”

“I’d rather not say until you see it for yourself.”

“I might be a pushover for you, Lake, but I’m not an idiot. You were totally upfront when you asked me to help you steal electricity and plug it all into those transformers. If you’re waiting until doors are locked and shades are drawn, I want no part of it. I’m trying to get into Harvard. I don’t need to be on some government list.”

“It’s nothing like that! The opposite, really!” I said, desperately. “It’s so boring that I was just worried you wouldn’t be on board if you knew what it was.”

“Your Dad gonna know about it?”

“No. In fact, we need to do this at your place,” I said, bluntly.

Omar groaned. He was as smart as he acted, which meant he was too smart to take risks, which is no way to live life. He just needed a push sometimes. That’s what flirking is for.

“Look, this is way, way less sketchy than anything we’ve ever done together. I just don’t want Dad to see me plugging stuff in— innocent though it may be— after the government confiscated equipment from our garage.”

Omar sighed. “Here’s my offer: You tell me what’s up in one sentence, and I’ll think about it.”

“It’s the weirdest, space alien-est radio signal I’ve ever heard and I wanna know more,” I said. I heard him sigh.

“You do know how to speak my language,” he said, and hung up. I clicked the phone back into its cradle in the kitchen, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. I was on a roll.

There’s a myth about indoorsy people that says they hate going outside. This isn’t true. We like the occasional picnic and snow day. We do absolutely despise summer, though. We’re a little better with the cold because we can always hunker down bundle up to get warm, but there’s only so much clothing you can take off to cool down. It’s not that we don’t want to go outside, we just think summer needs to sit down and shut up. So, sometimes it’s hard to get Omar to come work in my sweltering garage. I was hoping the prospect of working at his air-conditioned kitchen table would help make my case, and it did.

After half an hour of sun-drenched bike-riding later with Gerald and Grundig carefully stowed in my backpack, I was guzzling a glass of ice water while Omar put Gerald on his ears, listening to The Signal on Grundig. I’m aware I could have just told him to tune to 1705 and let him do it on his own radio, but I wanted to replicate the experiment with the same equipment. And, I wanted to see his face. Omar is a good litmus test when you’re wondering if you’re crazy.

Omar had taken off his blue Hewlett Packard baseball cap to put on Gerald, and now Gerald was mushing down his springy hair so that it looked like a butt. His overbite had his bottom lip in a vice grip. He leaned forward in his chair, his skinny elbows on the table giving him the leverage he needed to press Gerald close to his ears. This was his “analyzing” face.

Omar took Gerald off and turned to me.

“Sorry, just sounds like static to me,” Omar said after a few minutes. That wasn’t right. I yanked Gerald out of Omar’s hands (”Rude!” he whined) and put him (Gerald, I mean) on my ears. He (Omar, I mean) was right: just white noise. Not the terrifying monster noise I heard Saturday night; just regular static.

“I swear it’s been playing music,” I said.

“Are you sure you’re on the right station?”

“I’m positive. Look,” I said, retrieving the photo of Mom in the radio booth from my backpack and handing it to Omar.

“It’s a nice picture of her,” he said.

“Yeah. Look on the back, though,” I said. He flipped the photo over.

“1705?” he asked, then looked at Grundig’s frequency dial for the first time. “As in, 1705 AM?”

“Yep,” I said, a little annoyed he had figured that out so quickly, when it had taken me days.

Omar’s eyebrows floated up his forehead. “You heard something on the Ghost Station?”

8

My face must have looked like a fish’s. I know my eyes were wide and my mouth was hanging open.

“You’ve never heard of the Ghost station? Seriously? You of all people?” Omar said. He was bordering on insulting me. I shrugged and shook my head.

“Do you… know why it’s called that?” he asked.

I silently, but enthusiastically, shook my head “no.”

“Do you… want to know why it’s called that?”

I silently, but enthusiastically, nodded my head “yes.”

“It was a big deal around here, like, 20 years ago. My Mom talks about sometimes. She says people wrote letters to the show, and there was a lady who did most of the talking and a guy she called Dr. Smooth. Mom says she wrote in and made a request one time and it ‘changed her life.’ She talks like it was magic and it showed her the face of her ‘one true love,’ though she never goes into any more detail than that.”

Omar handed me the photo of Mom back to me.

“Do you think the lady could have been my Mom?” I asked.

Omar made a skeptical, scrunched-up face. “Your Mom had a pretty distinct accent. I think my Mom would have recognized her,” he said. “You know Rory Combs, from school? He says its a secret military signal that’s broadcasting an encoded message that can’t be heard on regular radios.”

“But there’s not a military base anywhere near here,” I said. “And why would it play music?”

“Yeah, Rory’s an idiot,” Omar said. “There’s a lotta holes in that theory.”

“Well, I didn’t hear a lady or Dr. Smooth, but I’m sure there was music,” I said. “I’m sure I didn’t dream it.”

“I mean, I believe you,” Omar said, and I think he meant it. Which actually said a lot, since I messed with him all the time.

“Where do you think it comes from?” I asked. “Is it on Mt. Timucua?”

“Nah, those are all FM antennas. AM antennas are usually lower, remember? It could be anywhere. It could even be somebody copying your deal with their own A-N-D-Y. You know, just a hobbyist broadcasting from their basement a few blocks away from your house.”

He was probably right. But it wasn’t a good idea to knock on random people’s doors and say “Hey, will you show me your basement?”

“I wonder if there’s some way to track the signal?” I said. “Is there, like, such thing as a signal compass?”

“I think there is, but they’re probably expensive.”

I chewed on my lip. I was close to giving up, and if I hadn’t had a mysterious photo of my Mom with a mysterious radio frequency printed on the back of it, I might have. Omar was ready to give up, though, and he made this clear by standing up from the table and stretching him arms toward the ceiling until his back popped.

“You might as well stay for dinner,” he said. This was very good news to me because Ms. Olmeda could cook for God. She made mole with chicken (while wearing a red dress with white polka dots, like Minnie Mouse), and it was truly divine. Spicy, savory, and a hint of cocoa. You’d think the cocoa would fight the rest of the flavors, but it didn’t. Dad finally got the text I’d sent him two hours ago and replied that he would pick me up if I wanted to stay after it got dark at eight o’clock. That was okay with Ms. Olmeda, so I got to stay a little later and we hung out and watched TV. I could tell Omar had been thinking all night, but he didn’t say anything else about The Signal until we were saying our goodbyes next to Dad’s Tacoma.

“You know, the difference might be that you brought the radio to my house. You might be too far away,” he said.

“I guess. So what?”

“So, maybe you don’t need a compass. If you can figure out where you can hear the music and where you can’t, and which direction the signal is strongest, you can figure out the center of the signal. You already have a compass: Grundig.”

My eyes widened and I allowed myself an excited squeal, as a treat. I startled him by clapping both hands down on his shoulders and shaking him. “Dude! That is genius! We’ll start tomorrow!”

Omar’s startled expression transformed into a condescending snort. “Yeah, no, I am not going to hike around in Georgia summer heat. You can tell me all about it, though.”

“Suit yourself,” I said, then gave him a little one-armed side hug and climbed into the passenger seat of the truck.

9

There’s not much to tell about my mapping efforts. It was just as hot and miserable as Omar had predicted, although I swore I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right. After a few hours of walking around with headphones plugged into the Walkman, I had made a perfectly curved line in black marker on an overhead photograph of Painter’s Brush I had printed out. My house was about a quarter mile from the western city limits of Painter’s Brush, and the Signal terminated a few acres into town. I dug around in my desk and found the mathematical compass that I had to buy for school last year even though we only used it for one day. I used it to finish the circle on the map and find its center, which was in one of the many clumps of trees in the  wilds outside of town. These clumps weren’t too thick, but there was enough foliage to hide something. Especially if nobody was looking for it.

The fun part of this was that I wouldn’t have to “bike” out to the sticks in the way you might be imagining a 14-year-old would. I’d get to do it on my red 1998 Tomos Targa LX moped. Google it so you can see how rad it is. It used to be Mom’s when she and Dad had to share a car and sometimes needed a second vehicle. The word “moped” is a broad term; the vehicles that are called “moped” range from rad scooters that are practically motorcycles to little more than a single horsepower two-cycle motor attached to the pedals. Mine was closer to the latter, the original meaning of “motor-pedal” (moped, get it?), but it was still way cooler than a regular bicycle that only go 10 miles per hour unless you’re Lance Armstrong. My moped could do twice that with half the work of a regular bike. Plus, it could go off-road and made this cool high-pitched revving sound when I really cranked it. It was basically a motor vehicle that I didn’t need a license for.

My backpack was filled with exploration supplies, which basically means some granola bars and a bunch of random tools for whatever could come up. I cranked the motor and puttered toward the center of the circle on my map. I was sure I was going crazy, now, but there was nothing left to do but see where it took me. I figured it might be fun.

My house is near the edge of Painter’s Brush, so it was only a couple of miles before I crossed into unincorporated territory. The green hills rolled along like grassy waves in a grassy sea with barely an interruption, save the occasional cute little house or tiny thicket of trees. Mom always said it reminded her of the emerald hills of Ireland, like it was a little piece of her homeland she could look at any time she felt homesick. It was a secret world outside of town hiding in plain sight.

After another mile, I found myself riding down Dunn Road. It was at the edge of a decently-sized clump of trees that was at least big enough to call it “woods.” Whatever I was looking for was a little less than half a mile inside, which would have been a breezy stroll if it wasn’t through the densest thicket of brush I’d ever seen. But that wasn’t going to stop me. No, what was stopping me from stepping across the threshold into the woods was that this was where Mom died.

Or, at least, Dunn Road is where a passerby found her. Nobody knew why she would be out here or exactly what had happened. The Sheriff’s office asked us all these awful questions, like how likely it was that she’d run out on us. She didn’t have a mark on her, and she hadn’t been sick. The coroner’s best guess was that she just had a brain aneurysm, a freak one-in-a-billion thing. I was nine years old. Just old enough to understand.

I know this sounds like something scary you’d see on a Netflix documentary, but the Sheriff’s office said there was no foul play and I had no reason not to trust that. People in Painter’s Brush barely know each other’s names, and certainly don’t have any reason to hate each other enough to do something like that. Also, Mom was kindof an outdoorsy type, and taking a random stroll in the woods or down a country road is exactly the kind of thing she would do. She was the mysterious type, too, always casually revealing little secrets about herself. Nothing huge or scandalous like having a secret family. Just random, harmless things. One time at dinner she mentioned she went on a date with James Blunt in college. If you knew her, you’d know it was probably true.

I took a deep breath. I had gone through the grieving process a long time ago, so that was enough for me to calm myself and focus on the task at hand. From the tree line, I saw that the terrain was pretty rough and that even my safe-for-offroad moped was not going to make the trip. I chained it to a tree and hoped it was mostly hidden from the road. I didn’t need some jerk stealing it and forcing me to walk back home.

I tromped into the woods in heavy shoes that I used to do yard work. I mashed down thorny vines as I hiked slowly through the thicket, keeping an eye out for holes in the ground. It was ankle-twist city out there. Briers and thorns tore at my Steven Universe shirt. I am a tiny elf person so, yes, some of my clothes from when I was eight years old still fit me, and some of them are cute on me in a semi-ironic way. I got angry at myself. Why had I worn this out here? I should have known better.

This was the time of year the birds were their most talkative. When I started my hike, the birds twittered chaotically like all birds do, their songs known only to them and the nerdiest of ornithologists. As I stomped through the trees and the forest thickened, their song seemed to organize. It formed rhythm and melody. I could swear they were singing along to the opening melody line of the Gorillaz’s “Feel Good Inc.” that was playing through my Walkman headphones.

After a half hour of hiking, I came upon a thicket of brush that was denser than the rest of the forest around it. I hadn’t brought anything bladed, but I’d packed Mom’s old Philadelphia Slugger. A blade would have been better, but it did the job well enough.

I was so busy whacking away at the brush that I almost walked past the building. It was so rundown and reclaimed by nature that it seemed a natural part of the forest. It also wasn’t all that big, just a few hundred square feet and one story. Its surviving design elements made me think it might have been built in the ‘50s. A 10-foot area around the whole building was paved, or at least had been at some point; grass and saplings pushed through giant cracks. Some of the asphalt was part of a short stretch of road, with faded white lines and dirty reflectors whose glue had long ago stopped holding them to the deeply-cracked and crumbling asphalt. The road terminated after a few yards. There were no parking lines painted outside the building, nor any cars parked. The building was flanked by a tall, metal tower that stretched up through the canopy of trees. I couldn’t see the top, but I didn’t need to.

It was, without a doubt, an AM radio antenna.

10

A vertical marquis, rounded at the top and bottom, adorned the middle of the front wall of the old radio station. The marquis was blank, but it may have hosted the station’s call letters in ancient times. Under the marquis was a heavy metal door with a sturdy padlock holding it fast to its frame. My plan for taking care of padlocks seemed like an Internet myth, but it was all I had. I flipped a can of keyboard cleaner upside-down, letting the trifluoroethane settle into the spritzer. I sprayed the padlock; it groaned and popped as I covered it in shockingly cold white film. I fumbled around in my backpack until my palm gripped another adventure item I’d brought—the claw hammer from the house’s toolbox. I raised it in the air like mighty Thor and brought it down hard.

I whiffed.

I almost lost my grip on the hammer. I tried again and found my mark, but nothing happened other than the clang of metal striking metal. I flailed the hammer in a panic, hitting the lock about one in three times and praying that this would work before the lock warmed back up too much. One strike was satisfying and solid and sent the lock smashing into the ground. “Ha!” I barked, looking around for approval from no one. The metal door creaked open an inch. I looked around once just to be sure that nobody was watching, then illegally entered.

The beam of my flashlight cast eerie shadows. The room looked like a reception area much like the Buzz’s, except that time and nature had reclaimed it. Mushrooms grew in the damp, ruined carpet. Mold clung to the walls. I covered my mouth with my Steven Universe shirt to keep from inhaling any nasty spores. The room was mostly empty except for the reception desk and some collapsed furniture, but one thing stood out: Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with 8-track cassettes that covered more than half the wall.

I walked over to see if any of the cassettes were worth looting. They were a fun novelty and surely either Omar or I had a player somewhere in our analog tech collections. There was a lot of good stuff: Some Moody Blues, some Genesis, some Heart. I grabbed these and stuck them in my backpack. There was some old fogey stuff, too, like the Carpenters and Kenny Rogers. I put these into my pack just for variety’s sake. And I won’t apologize: Some of it was catchy. “Fogey” doesn’t automatically mean “bad.”

One odd cassette caught my flashlight— Thin Lizzy’s The Boys are Back in Town album. The cassette was worn, but in a different way than its water-damaged siblings on the rack. It looked more like it had been handled often. Phil Lynott’s face was practically rubbed away. When I tried to take the cassette off the shelf, it moved a little, but then held fast, like it was stuck. I tried wiggling it side-to-side to un-wedge it. As I did, I felt the whole rack move a little. Startled, I let go of album, and it snapped back into place; when it did, I heard a small noise, like a latch popping. When I was sure that the whole rack wasn’t about to fall on top of me, I tried pulling the cart out again, and then pulled it to the left toward an empty section of the wall. The whole rack moved on a track in the floor I hadn’t noticed until now.

There was another door behind where the shelves had been, painted bright red and lacking the rot and dirt of the rest of the filthy room. Warm light peeked out from its edges. I tried the knob. It was unlocked.

The room beyond the door was not dirty or damaged. It was not dim or musty. It was not cramped. It was totally the opposite of the reception area: Large, clean, and lit by soft recessed ceiling lights and a few tacky lamps probably rescued from second-hand stores. One side of the room was set up to be a recording studio. It was an open space with two standing microphones standing on overlapping faded rugs of varied sizes and clashing designs, placed there to soak up echoes. A drum kit was set up on one side of the microphones, and a sleek black grand piano stood on the other. The wall behind the microphones was covered in egg-carton soundproofing foam. An overstuffed, wonderfully ugly plaid couch was on the eastern wall. A bookcase filled with magazines and paperback novels stood next to the couch. The walls were decorated with framed albums. I recognized a few of my album art favorites, like Roger Dean’s Yes albums and the weird, crying ape eating the cake from the cover of Fleetwood Mac’s Mystery to Me.

The part of the room closest to the door I was standing in was occupied by a large booth constructed on a raised floor. Turntables, mixing boards and other equipment lined its edges. It was a control booth for radio shows, but it wasn’t like any design I’d ever seen. Control rooms are usually cramped spaces, often rectangular and enclosed in glass (although some are as simple as microphones and boards set up on a desk). This was roomy, hexagonal booth with six pillars, each at a point on the hexagon; it somewhat resembled an indoor gazebo. There was no glass, nothing separating it from the studio recording portion of the room, which was unheard of in a radio control room setup. “West End Girls” by Pet Shop Boys was playing over speakers mounted to the tops of the walls in various parts of the room. It matched what was playing on my Walkman.

An old-but-grand desk chair, like Gordon Gekko might sell to a pawn shop when he’d worn it down, was near the main panel of the control room, turned away from me. Next to it was its much less charismatic partner, an office chair made of that red fake leather that looks like plastic. The Gordon Gekko chair turned around and revealed a broad, tall man. It was hard to tell how old he was, but he was definitely an adult. Way older than a teenager, but way younger than an elderly person. But, he could have been anywhere from 25 to 60. He was stout, with a round, but strong face and long, silky hair. He was wearing sunglasses, fingerless gloves, a huge pair of headphones, an Eagles T-shirt, and a military-style jacket, all comfortably loose-fitting. He gaped at me, like he was horrified. I cleared my throat.

“I am here for a job,” I said.

11

The moment landed. And it stayed there. The man said nothing. He just gaped.

“Okay, I get that I’m probably not supposed to be here, but this seems like an overreaction,” I said to the man. “Have you, like, been trapped in here your whole life or something, and I’m only other person you’ve ever met?”

“How did you find me?” he asked. He was close to freaking out, but his voice was deep and had a gravelly purr underneath that made it nice to listen to. He’d sound great on a mic, I thought.

“Well, I don’t know who you are,” I said, politely. “I’m Andy, by the way. Andy Lake.”

The man did not introduce himself. “No, I mean, how did you find this place?”

I laughed like a rich lady at a party. “Well, that is a story, let me tell you.”

“Yes. Tell me,” the man said. He hit a button on one of the boards in the control booth and the door slammed shut behind me, scaring me. For the first time since discovering The Signal, I genuinely wondered if I was in too deep. I prepared for a long story that involved everything from running my station to my obsession with The Signal, but I didn’t even get beyond the part where I crammed thousands of watts into my garage for a pirate radio station.

“You’re Girl on the Moon!” he said. “You’re that kid who ran that radio station out of her garage!”

I felt fear, flattery, and utter confusion all in the same moment, with a little revulsion at being called a “kid” sprinkled on top. I hadn’t said the name “Girl on the Moon,” yet, so he knew who I was. I wanted to say, “you listened to my show?” rhetorically just to hear him say, again, that I had a fan. Instead I asked, “How did you know it was me?”

“There aren’t a lot of kids running pirate radio stations out of their garages.”

“Okay, well, you broadcast a spooky mystery radio station out of here and you’re somehow shocked that someone knew about you, too, so let’s call it a draw,” I said, a little too defensively if I’m being honest. “You know you’re a bit of a local legend, right? Some people call you ‘Dr. Smooth.’”

The man looked away for a moment, like he was thinking or remembering something, before he cocked his head and smiled a little.

“I don’t hate that. But my name’s Kip. Have a seat.” He gestured at the tacky fake leather chair in the booth.

“Your signal went dark. What happened?” Kip asked once I settled into my chair.

“The FCC shut me down,” I said. I liked the sound of it better every time I said it. The man let out a deep laugh from his chest. It was a caveman laugh, but it had personality. Logic told me to leave now, to not get murdered by this weird dude in a shack in the middle of the woods. The dumb part of my brain told me to stay. Mom used to say that part was your heart.

I got a better look at the equipment in the control booth and confirmed at least some of it was for radio. Maybe Kip was actually using the booth to broadcast the Signal? Was some of this other equipment for the recording studio?

“What were you saying about wanting a job?” Kip asked.

“I’m looking to go straight and work for a real, legal radio station,” I said. “But based on what I’ve seen so far, I might be in the absolute wrong place for that.”

Kip gave another deep chuckle. “I mean, I don’t have money,” he said.

“That’s fine, I was looking for more of an internship, anyway.”

“And nobody else will give you a shot?”

“They won’t even consider it.”

Kip narrowed his eyes, like he was sizing me up again. “How did you figure out the Signal?” he asked.

“Wait, you call it ‘The Signal,’ too?” I said. “That’s what I’ve been calling it in my head!”

“Does that mean you haven’t told anybody else about it?” Kip asked. He sounded like he wanted that to be true.

“Just one guy, but he’s never heard any music on the frequency and doesn’t think you’re real. He says you’re an urban legend. What are you doing here, anyway? How do you afford all this?”

Kip rubbed his left thumb against his hand anxiously.

“You are not supposed to be here,” he said under his breath.

“But I am here,” I said. “And unless you’re willing to call the police—“

Kip chuckled, giving away that it was not an option, as I had suspected.

“—or erase my memories— “

I paused, expecting another chuckle, but Kip just raised one eyebrow and said “hm.” That made me nervous.

“—I, uh, I think you’re stuck with me,” I finished.

“You know about the Buzz?” he said.

I nodded and let my sad puppy eyes tell the story of my humiliation at Mrs. Blankenship’s hands.

“I used to some odd jobs for the lady who owns the place, and she hates pirate radio and would probably do anything to keep you out of it,” Kip said. “You don’t ask me any questions, and you don’t tell anyone about me, or this building, and I’ll give her a call and sweet talk her into setting you up with a gig. It’s a sure thing. All you have to do is show up to the interview and not call the station management mean names.”

I should have been grateful, I guess, but I was disappointed.

“But this place is so cool,” I whined.

Kip leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees so that his meaty forearms drooped between his legs. His head was much closer to me, now, and closer to my elevation.

“You will not get what you want here. You won’t be able to use anything you do here on a job application or a résumé. I am doing you a favor.”

“I cracked your code. I deserve to know what is going on here.” I said. “That Signal is obviously supposed to lead people here. Well, here I am, dude!”

“Fine. It ‘led’ you here,” he said with exaggerated air quotes. “Congratulations, you are at the end of your quest and have received your reward. Now, shoo.”

He actually tried to shoo me away with his hands, but I still didn’t want to go. I had not brought the picture of my mother because I hadn’t expected to find a fully-equipped radio station in the middle of the woods. Could this be the control room Mom was sitting at in the photo? Without it in front of me to compare, it was hard to tell. Mysterious and exciting as it was, up close I couldn’t tell it apart from any other radio control booth.

“Did a woman named Suzanne ever come here?” I said. It was weird calling Mom by her first name, but I couldn’t ask Kip, Hey, do you know my Mom?

“The agreement was no questions,” he said, then apparently thought better of it and added, “But, place was empty when I found it, and you’re the only other person I’ve seen walk through that door since then.”

I opened my mouth to ask if it was possible somebody came while he wasn’t here, but Kip turned back to me and put up a shushing finger. I didn’t care for that, but I shushed, anyway. I left the warmly lit room that smelled like old rugs and metal and burnt coffee. I’d play the game the way he wanted for now, but Kip had not seen one percent of my stubbornness.

“And put the 8-track rack back where it was!” he shouted after me.

12

Kip was true to his word and I got an email from WBS confirming my interview time at the Buzz the next day. It wasn’t a surprise that Brunson Water owned the Buzz; she probably owned every radio station I went to with my FCC letter. Although she was known for TV, Dad figured she bought up little broadcast assets like that so she had a monopoly and controlled the competition with her streaming services.

Mrs. Blankenship wasn’t behind the desk when I arrived at the Buzz. So, I just squeaked out a nervous “Hello?” when I walked in the door.

“Oh, I didn’t notice you come in! How can I help you?” a surprised voice asked from underneath the desk. A girl’s head popped up from underneath. She looked about my age, maybe a year older. “Sorry, I dropped an earring and I was fishing around for it.” She flashed a small gold set of three triangles that she held between her thumb and index finger. I didn’t play a lot of video games, but even I knew the triangles were from The Legend of Zelda, though I didn’t really know what they were or why they were important in the game.

The girl had a shocking blue streak dyed into her black hair and was wearing a T-shirt with the words “Nintendo Power Super Power Club” written on it in a dynamic, lightning-yellow font. The letters were cracked and faded from what looked like twenty years of machine washings.

“Oh, hi, where’s Mrs. Blankenship?” I asked.

“She retired last week! I’m Rydia. I’m filling in for the summer, and then they’ll find somebody full time.”

“Hi, I’m Andy Lake. Is that your whole name? Just Rydia?”

“Yup.”

“That’s so pretty!”

“Thanks, I picked it myself,” she said, aloof but not sarcastic.

“That is beyond cool.”

“I love Final Fantasy II,” she said. “Well, it’s really the fourth one, but it’s “II” here.” I knew even less about Final Fantasy than I did Zelda, but I knew it was one of the big names in video games. Normally, I would not want to hear somebody drone on about video games, but there was something about Rydia that made it fascinating.

“Here? Like, the U.S.?” I said.

“Yeah, in the U.S. The real II and the third game weren’t translated into English, so IV became II in the U.S. so that we didn’t get confused.”

“That seems pretty confusing, anyway,” I said. She giggled like I had hit the nail on the head.

“So, what about Final Fantasy II?” I asked.

Rydia stared blankly at me until she suddenly perked up, apparently realizing that she’d never explained how the words “Rydia” and “Final Fantasy” were related or relevant.

“Oh! She’s a character in the game,” she said.

“Like, the one you play as?”

“Well, sort of. You play as lots of characters.” Rydia had stopped making eye contact, losing herself in her explanation, but her face had been active and happy as she rattled on. It suddenly fell to embarrassment, like she’d been caught doing something wrong.

“So, really, how can I help you?” she said, suddenly professional. I launched into my speech I’d practiced in front of the mirror.

“I have an interview with Ms. Hofstadter in about ten minutes,” I said. Ms. Hofstadter, first name Shirley, was the station manager’s name.

Rydia twisted her mouth. “How old are you?”

I sighed. “Fourteen.”

“I’m not in charge or nothin,’ but I can tell you that they’re not going to let you do anything cool,” Rydia said. “I’m fifteen and they barely let me have this job. I think the only reason I have it is because the station manager goes to my church and my Dad’s the preacher.”

“Well,” I continued, barreling through her push-back by pulling out my FCC report, “I ran a 10,000-watt radio station out of my garage for two years.”

“Is that… legal?” she asked.

“It is not,” I said, trying to mirror the cool, detached way Rydia had revealed she chose her own name.

“Cool,” she said, sounding impressed, the kind of impressed that someone who never does anything wild is when you tell them you sneaked out for a joyride in your parents’ car. It was a strange tone for someone with a streak of blue hair. She started bopping to Huey Lewis singing one that makes me feel like I feel when I’m with you.

“I love this song,” Rydia said. “I don’t know what it’s called, though. I always miss it when the DJ says the name.”

“It’s called ‘I Want a New Drug.’ It’s by Huey Lewis,” I said.

Rydia giggled mischievously. “That’s probably not something I should be listening to. Does he have any other good songs?”

“Have you ever seen Back to the Future?”

“Yeah, of course. I love those movies.”

“He wrote some of the songs for that movie. “Power of Love” and the one that’s like, ‘Tell me Doctor / Where are we going this time?’”

Rydia smiled big. “I might be a Huey Lewis fan.”

She made me laugh. I couldn’t help but keep showing off.

“Have you ever seen Ghostbusters?” I asked.

“YES! I love Ghostbusters!” she almost shouted. She put a hand on mine excitedly and my arm hair stood up. It was nice, like somebody had yelled “surprise!” on my birthday.

“Well, you know the main theme from that movie?” I said, snapping my attention back to the conversation.

“Just the Ghostbusters song? The ‘who you gonna call’ one?” Rydia said.

“Right. Well, Huey Lewis sued the guy who sings that song, Ray Parker, Jr., because Huey said Ray stole ‘I Want a New Drug.’”

Rydia quietly listened to the chorus playing over the speakers.

“I hear it!” she said when the musical phrase in question played. The smile relaxed as she looked away, lost in thought for a few seconds.

“Can I tell you something kinda personal?” She asked when she returned from the daydream.

“Of course.”

“I want to do that.”

“What?”

“Make music. For movies and video games and stuff. Like, not what Ray Parker Jr. did. Not songs with lyrics, but more like a musical score.”

“Wow,” I said.

“I know, it’s stupid,” she said, scoffing and smiling to try to hide her embarrassment.

“No! It’s not stupid! At least not any stupider than me trying to be a radio DJ at any point after 1998,” I said. Rydia laughed loudly and suddenly at that. It was a sound of pure joy. We talked for a few more minutes until it was time for the interview. By the time the conversation was done we were set up to message each other. Rydia walked through the door behind her desk to fetch the station manager and returned a minute later with her eyes bugging out. I was confused until I saw who was following her into the lobby.

My first impression of Brunson Water is one of those memories that will stay with me forever. The mundane reality is that she was just a woman of average height and build wearing professional clothes. But to me, as she stood lobby, the summer sun shining on her from the building’s front windows, she was something to behold. The woman had an aura. Her flawless skin laid over perfect cheekbones that capped the corners of a Mona Lisa smile. Her hair was in a curly bob that gave her a sort of 1920s flair. Her clothes were nice, but colored plainly, which made her striking scarlet lipstick pop.

“Hello. Andy Lake?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. It was a miracle I didn’t stutter.

“You seem surprised to see me,” she said. “Although, I’ll admit even I have trouble keeping track of what I own.” I hadn’t been surprised that the Buzz was owned by Water, but for her to actually be here was nuts.

“Well, come along. Shirley has graciously allowed us to use her office for our interview.”

My mouth fell open. My first-ever job interview was with one of the biggest media moguls on the planet? Was Water the person Kip called to set this up? Was his “lady who owns the place” Brunson ding-dang Water?!

On the way to the office, we passed a door with a small vertical window that I could see the studio through. The DJ, a cute woman in her twenties with a ponytail, was looming close to the mic while looking at her baseball-capped producer, who counted down to zero on his fingers. It made me think of Omar counting me down in my garage. I pulled the picture of Mom sitting in the studio out of my wallet, where I now kept it full-time. I didn’t have the best view, but I could tell the Buzz wasn’t where the picture was taken.

When we got to the office, Ms. Water closed the door and opened a mini-fridge. She offered me a bottle of water. I declined.

“You don’t want to eat or drink anything in front of someone you’re trying to impress,” she said. “Good move. It will make dating difficult, though. Just speaking from experience.”

It was exactly what I had been thinking. Even the dating part.

“So, how do you know Kip?” she asked. I was sure she just meant it as an icebreaker, but from my end it was complicated. Kip had made me swear not to tell anyone about him and his radio station, and he also said Ms. Water hated pirate radio. I still might have use for Kip, so I decided to do him a favor and keep my answers about him simple.

“We just met,” I said. “Just ran into him and got to talking.”

“Where’s he hanging his hat these days?”

“I think he couch surfs,” I lied, although I figured he did sleep on the ugly-cute sofa in his radio station.

“He says you’re looking for an internship, but everyone is turning you down?”

“They say I’m too young.”

“I don’t know if you can be ‘too young,’ but I suppose I understand what they mean. How old are you? Fourteen?” It felt like the question was entirely rhetorical, like it was only asked to make her ability to tell my exact age seem less weird.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I don’t know if you know, but I ran an amateur broadcast out of a garage since I was 5 years old. So, I know some of the equipment.”

With a delicate scoff, she said, “You mean a pirate radio station.”

Fine. I’d let her use her dirty words. I’d let her feel like the boss.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said with a pinch of fake regret.

“Where is this garage?” she asked.

“At my home. Here in Painter’s Brush.”

“Well, I’ll grant you that’s a little impressive. And, I haven’t seen Kip in forever, but if he says you’re the real deal, I’m inclined to trust him. He has good instincts about people.”

“Does that mean I have the job?” I asked, hope sparkling in my voice.

“Actually, you’ll be working for Shirley,” Ms. Water said.

“The station manager? I don’t understand,” I said.

“As an assistant. Paid, of course. I don’t believe in unpaid internships. I’ll make sure there will be plenty of time for you to observe the day-to-day workings. And everyone here will answer any questions you have. I promise it will be an educational experience, not just a gopher job.”

My heart fell through the floor and into the black abyss at the center of the world, where dreams go to die. “I won’t be working on the broadcast?”

“I can’t let someone with no experience work in the control room.”

I wanted to scream “I do have experience! Years of it!” but I held my tongue. I just nodded and smiled. Ms. Water sat on the edge of the desk and folded her hands.

“You’re disappointed.”

 It actually was a generous offer— if I stuck with it, they’d let me into the control room eventually. Probably much sooner than most people who make a career of this. Eventually one of the time slots would open up, and I could have my own radio show here for the rest of my life, or at least the rest of radio’s dwindling life. I could have a job I interviewed with Brunson Water for. I’d have her as a reference. It would be stupendously stupid not to take the job.

But, I was listening to my heart, the dumb part of my brain.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“You have a better offer,” Ms. Water said. She didn’t act surprised to hear me turn the job down. Maybe she really could read minds.

“I’m not sure everyone would agree, but yes, I think so,” I said. “Do you ever have a little voice that tells you to go for it, even if it isn’t the safe bet?”

Brunson was quiet for a moment, though she kept eye contact with me. She seemed to be choosing her words.

“I remember being 14,” she said. “I know adults say that kind of thing a lot, but I really do, because when I was 14 I realized some truths that would define the rest of my life, and I suspect that it will be the same for you.

“When I was 14, I figured out that I could pretend to be an adult and get a bank loan for a business. And then I figured out that I could do the same thing and buy a business. I successfully ran a McDonald’s for a month.”

I was dumbstruck, but I managed to ask, “What do you mean, ‘successfully?’”

“I mean I turned a profit. Paid my workers a fair wage and completely repaid the loan. The only reason I had to stop was because the ruse was impossible to keep up for long. I was found out by my father, who forced me to stop. He was legally responsible for me, of course, and took a plea deal that allowed the state to seize my franchise and its profits. I lost everything because my father was afraid of my power.”

She had been looking at the floor while she was lost in her memories, but now she looked me right in the eye.

“When you’re 14, everyone expects you to act like an adult but treats you like a child. When you’re 14, you just want control over your own life, and everyone else, even people you love and who love you, are so quick to take it away from you. They act like it’s for your sake, but it isn’t. They want power over you. Sometimes that’s for greed, but most of the time it’s because they are afraid. Either they are afraid of you, or afraid for you. My father was both.”

It was like she’d seen into my soul, like she knew me better than I knew myself. It was all my anxieties about being who I was wrapped up in one speech. I understood exactly what she was saying to me. I thought about how my father had bent so easily to the FCC and gave away my mother’s legacy, just to avoid some legal tangles. I thought about how I had to practically beg Omar just to listen to the Signal. I thought about how reticent Kip was, how he seemed to be hiding inside the radio station in the woods. All of them were afraid. They were whispers in my ear telling me I risked too much. But, finally, here was Brunson Water to tell me that I had strength inside me.

“I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” I said.

“You didn’t. This station didn’t really need an intern. And it was a genuine pleasure to meet you.”

I smiled. “You, too.”

We shook hands and I walked back to the lobby.

“So?” Rydia asked.

“You were right. It’s just an assistant job.”

“For what it’s worth, I think we’d have fun working together. But if you have somewhere else you’d rather be, I also think you should go for it.”

“She said the same thing. Basically.”

“Then you’ve only got one choice.”

I grinned at her as I practically flew out the door.

“Message me!” Rydia shouted after me.

“I will!” I shouted back.

13

Even though I was in a rush to leave the station and embrace my destiny, I did take a moment to go home and change out of my one set of professional clothes because it was more-or-less on the way to the woods. I had to hike there again, although the trip was shorter and easier now that I made a path, and I was able to whack more brush away to make the next time even easier.

I half-expected the building and its metal tower to be gone. To have just been a dream. But after my trek through the secret rural world, through the woods, and past the talented and organized bird songs, the building was still there when I walked into the clearing. Fresh plywood boards were nailed over the door and a new padlock secured it to its frame. I wondered how Kip left and entered the building. Even if he spent most of his time there, he’d have to leave to get supplies or at least hunt or gather food if he was really hardcore. He’d at least have to have a way back in after he barred the door. I resolved to ask him these questions while I chained myself to the radiator or whatever I would have to do to force him to let me stay. I disposed of the planks and padlock the same way I had before. I rolled the 8-track shelves out of the way, and then kicked the door open. Literally. Like, with my foot.

“Wham!” I yelled. I felt like I could get away with it. I was also betting Kip respected brazenness. I don’t know why I assumed Kip would be at the station, but at the time I thought nothing of it. Kip yelled and jumped so hard his chair tumbled over and dumped him onto the floor. His headphones sailed off his head and soared gracefully through the air until the cord ran out of slack and yanked them underneath one of the console eaves.

“Why are you here?” he moaned from the floor. “You weren’t supposed to come back!”

“Yeah, I don’t think it’s going to work out with the Buzz,” I said, my voice thick with sarcasm.

Kip groaned in defeat on the floor for a few more seconds, then got to his feet and set his Gordon Gekko chair upright. He sighed, sat down, and patted the red chair. “Alright. Let’s talk.”

I sat down, leaned back, and crossed my legs. Kip had been clean-shaven the last time I was here, but now some stubble was showing. He rubbed it so hard his jaw moved in his hand. He looked like he was about to say something difficult.

“You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?” he said.

“No,” I said. “And I think you don’t really want me to.”

He raised his eyebrows and looked over his aviator sunglasses that were impractical in the softly lit control room, waiting for me to explain. His eyes were soft and brown.

“I think you’re lonely and bored,” I said.

“I’m never lonely,” he said in a cocky voice. I guess he was trying to say he was so cool that he was the only company he needed, but the brag didn’t stick.

“But I’m always bored,” he admitted. “That’s why I’m allowing this at all. I’m going to regret this, but do you have any questions?” he said.

“Did you build this?” I shouted, almost not letting him finish the sentence. I pointed all over the room to indicate I meant the radio station. He laughed his deep, gritty laugh.

“No, I stumbled on it, same as you. I don’t know how it got here.”

 I hadn’t “stumbled on it,” I had actively searched for it and found it, thank you very much, but I decided to let that thought stew inside me instead of voicing it.

“How do you know Brunson Water?”

“You can slow down your imagination. It’s not that glamorous. I met her when she was just kinda-famous instead of world-famous. I was on some hard times and she gave me a job at the Buzz.”

I gasped. “You worked in radio?”

Kip guffawed. I don’t use the word lightly.

“Nah. I love music, but I didn’t care about working in the booth. I was just a handyman. Like a janitor with a toolbox. She was impressed with my work and told me to call her if I needed a job or a reference or something.”

“Are you going to actually let me use the equipment?” I asked. Kip seemed confused by the question.

“Well, yeah,” he said. “That’s why you’re here right?”

“Yes.”

“Then how about this: You keep the rest of your questions limited to the radio stuff, and we’ll be fine.  And, you absolutely cannot tell anybody about this place. I think you know first-hand what happens if the wrong people get wind of a pirate radio station. And, I know you more-or-less profited from your radio station getting hauled off, but I’ll bet it hurt when you watched them drive away with it. Now, imagine that hurt and multiply it by a million, and that’s how I’ll feel if the same happens here. Do you understand?”

I stood up dramatically, spat in my hand and stuck it out straight in front of me.

“What the heck are you doing,” he said. It wasn’t really a question, but I answered anyway.

“Spit shake. I’m agreeing to the deal. I’ll work at the Buzz, and I’ll come here when I’m not there. I won’t tell anybody about you or your radio station.”

“That’s okay,” he said, wincing. “I believe you.”

“Nope. It’s sacred. I can’t break this promise, no matter what. I thought you’d be cool with this. You don’t seem like the type that’s easily yucked out.”

He stood up and gingerly took my hand and shook it. My hand was lost in his. I’d noticed he was a big guy before, but now I was seeing him standing at his full height for the first time and saw how huge he really was. Normally I’d be intimidated, but Kip had a vibe about him that said he’d never hurt you.

“So,” I said, hoping he would fill in the rest. When he didn’t, I said, “What now?”

“I guess come back tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll teach you what I know, but it won’t be much.”

“Oh, c’mon, teach me now!” I whined. “It takes a lot of time and energy to get out here!”

“Well, we’ll see how bad you want to learn.”

He sat down again and turned away to fiddle with a machine near his chair that had several cassettes plugged into it. As I got ready to leave, I slipped the photo of Mom out of my wallet and held it up so that it almost obstructed my view of Kip.

It was a perfect fit. My Mom had sat in that exact spot.