He didn’t remember falling asleep.

But sometime in the middle of the night, the past came knocking.

They were in the backyard again — her mother’s place — sitting cross-legged on an old patchwork blanket under the sagging maple tree. The sun was warm, late summer, maybe early fall. A cheap stereo played something from a mixtape she’d made, and they passed a sweating bottle of strawberry kiwi Kool-Aid back and forth like it was fine wine. The kind of afternoon that wasn’t special until you realized you’d never get another one like it.

He said something stupid that made her laugh too hard. She kicked her foot at him, missed, and nearly knocked over the whole picnic. They didn’t stop smiling for what felt like hours.

Then came the music — loud and thunderous and wrapped in humidity and headlights.

Alpine Valley.

He could feel the grass under his boots, the press of the crowd around them. They’d seen Hootie & the Blowfish live at least three times, but the memories had blended into one night of perfect sound. Darius Rucker’s voice cut through the air like a flare.

She leaned back into him, arms wrapped around his waist. They stood that way for the entire set, but when Let Her Cry started, she turned to face him, rested her forehead against his, and they just… swayed. Didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Somewhere halfway through the chorus, she started singing softly in his ear, her voice shaky but sweet.

They held each other like they didn’t know when they’d get to do it again.

The music bled away.

Now they were at the tech booth again — the last show they ever worked together. She ran the light rig, headset askew, fingers flying over sliders with that same quiet intensity he always admired. He was behind the board, cuing sound and grinning every time she flashed the lights in perfect sync to the drop.

The show was chaos.

They were perfect.

And then it was night again. Her on the couch, head on his lap, curled into the shape of comfort. The Wall played on the TV — not exactly light fare, but it had been his pick. She gave him endless shit for it, but stayed curled up anyway, fingers loosely holding his.

The scene shifted — the room dimmer now, the air tighter. They were at the kitchen table, half-eaten pizza on mismatched plates, the crusts long gone cold. He slid a small stack of papers across the table.

“You should think about getting a ham radio license,” he said, nudging it toward her. “Since you’re always out in the middle of nowhere doing this mobile vet thing… cell service won’t always cut it.”

She tilted her head, skeptical.

“That’s the book you need to read,” he added. “That’s the paperwork. And that”—he slid over a small black radio—“is yours.”

“I don’t even know how to use it,” she said, smiling despite herself.

He leaned in a little, voice softer now. “You were around when I was learning, remember? Back in high school — stringing wires across my garage, blowing fuses every other weekend.”

She blinked, then let out a low laugh. “God, yeah. I think I do remember what to do.”

“Then you’re already ahead of most people.”

She turned the radio in her hands, examining the buttons. “So if I actually do this… do I get one of those call sign things?”

“Yeah. Once you pass the test, the FCC assigns you one. You have to use it at the start and end of every transmission — it’s how people know who’s talking.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So what’s my call sign?”

He smiled, shook his head. “Well, officially it’ll be whatever the FCC gives you. Some boring string of letters and numbers.”

She smirked. “That’s disappointing.”

“But,” he added, tapping the table between them, “if you’re ever in a jam — and I mean really in a jam — you’ll always be Audrey to me.”

She laughed through her nose. “Like Little Shop of Horrors?”

“Exactly. I still remember how amazing you were in that show.”

She rolled her eyes, smiling harder. “You’re ridiculous.”

He reached for her hand. “Okay. One more thing. Remember that mix tape I made you — the one with You’ve Got a Friend on it?”

She nodded.

“If you ever hear someone on the radio say, ‘Close your eyes and think of me… and soon I will be there’—that’s how you’ll know it’s me. No matter what else I’m saying. That line means it’s me.”

Her expression softened, eyes misty. “You cheesy bastard.”

He smiled. “You love it.”

She didn’t say anything else.

Just squeezed his hand, gave him the longest hug of his life, and walked out the door.

Cronauer sat up in the dark, heart pounding, breath uneven. The room was still — no movement, no sound, just the soft hum of stored solar current running through the inverter down the hall.

He swung his legs over the edge of the cot, pulled on his boots, and stood.

The dream clung to him like static — vivid, aching, incomplete.

Outside, the air was cold. Damp. The stars hung heavy above the rooftops of Viroqua, and the tower — bent but braced — cast a long silhouette across the cracked lot.

He walked past the barn, past the Beetle Bomb, past the moonshine jars still stacked by the door.

The transmitter shack stood just ahead, a low hum barely audible from inside.

He stepped up to the door, reached out, and laid his hand on the knob.

And paused.

Just for a moment.

Then he turned the knob.

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