I’d been the assistant producer for the last eight months, and aside from waking up at freaking dawn, an hour no one in their right mind should ever be awake for, I loved pretty much everything about this job. John and Tom were the DJs, both in their midforties, married with kids, and had been waking up Los Angeles since I was in junior high school. A fact I enjoyed reminding them of because it made them feel old, and it was one of the few things I could actually tease them about and get away with. While John was the one who tended to push the envelope and asked the tough questions, Tom tended to wait cautiously in the background, either laughing or jumping in to smooth over any wrinkles John created.

“Morning, Cammie,” the guys said in unison as I entered John’s office. Tom, John, and my direct boss, Scott, all looked up at me as I walked in.

“Hi. So, what have we got today?” I sat down and jumped right in, readying my pen over my notepad.

“We have Bronson coming in for the commute.” Scott stared down at a printed checklist as he asked, “Cammie, did you order the fruit plate, the special juices, and the bagels?”

Bronson was an up-and-coming singer, and teenage girls who sneaked out of school would be lining up around the building just to catch a glimpse of him.

“I did. Everything should arrive by seven thirty, and I’ll set it up in the green room.”

We called our holding room the green room because it was literally painted green and looked like something out of The Jungle Book, with more plants than any one room should ever hold. It was furnished simply with a sage-green L-shaped couch, an oversized table, and a bookshelf overflowing with compact discs, something we didn’t even use anymore. All the compact disc players were kept in storage since everything was converted electronically and run via computers. We couldn’t even give them away to listeners because they didn’t have a way to play the damn things.

Scott nodded. “Sounds great. Make sure the camera’s working in the main booth so we can upload pictures to social media while we’re interviewing him. And we’ll be having a contest to win front-row seats to his concert next Friday, so be prepared for the phones to blow up.” He looked down and scribbled notes on the checklist he held.

“Got it,” I said with a smile.

“I heard that Crineene got kicked out of a club last night after getting into a fistfight with her boyfriend. A fistfight,” Tom said with a grin. “Make sure you find that story.”

“Awesome.” I smirked as I shook my head.