The moon was full and there wasn’t a cloud in the late August night sky, so I could see them perfectly through the slant-paned windows of the broadcast booth: two men and two women, in suits, and wearing sunglasses. Sunglasses? At two in the morning? I’d had visits from the FCC before, but never at this hour. Something was very wrong. When they knocked, I put my headphones on the mic boom and potted down the monitor. Standing, I stretched—my sixty-something bones making a series of complaining sounds—and shuffled to the trailer’s front door. Opening it, I saw one of the women directly in front of me, her hands clasped at her narrow waist. “What??” I said. No need to be cordial. The FCC didn’t like me and I didn’t like them. “Mister Kelly?” “Yah.” “Would you step outside please?” “Look, I’m on the air. Is this about Andy? Shit, that bastard told me the lawyers took care of it. Shouldn’t you be talking to them?” “No.” “Station’s not automated, so I can’t leave the booth unattended, Miss…?”
