“I do,” he said. She heard a snap and saw that he’d opened a green bottle of Tanqueray. He pulled out two glasses and a tiny bottle of Schweppes tonic. “Everything I did was designed to fill the vacuum,” said Jason, as if he could read her mind.

“And Todd?” It was the natural next question. Peter and Todd were now lumped together forever on Wickelow Bend. She’d watched his mouth tighten, but he did not answer her. Instead they both drank to the future.

Five years from now with a bit more reflection, she wondered what life would be like for her. How would she shift herself to feel less incomplete? Looking around the radio station, she thought she was off to a good start with that question. The old Lara Barnes, the one who would have married Todd, wouldn’t have needed to buy a radio station. This one did.

Lately, she’d also begun to think of the man in the field. That boy is not your destiny.

As a child, she’d had a wild imagination. She’d been born with only one kidney and had been sickly, so some part of her had never been convinced that the man had been real; perhaps he was just an imaginary friend created by an overactive mind. Still, what he had said, real or not, had been on her mind lately. Had they known her fate? They’d certainly seemed to allude to it. These were the things you thought of in the middle of the night when you were alone at a radio station. It wasn’t a healthy shift, that was for sure.

She waved to Bob Breen, the drive-time announcer sitting in the sound booth, the glow from his cigarette lighting the darkened space. She was sure she’d told him that he couldn’t smoke in here anymore, but she’d likely have to add a sign near the clock—all the on-air talent watched the clock. She checked her own watch: fifteen minutes until she was on air. Her father began to gather up his stuff, finally satisfied with his albums.

At seven, Bob pushed back from the table and was quickly off. Lara heard the door shut behind him as she climbed into the chair and wheeled up to the control desk. She thought that she was probably one of the few DJs who didn’t like the sound of her own voice. Her vocal cords sounded as though they’d been run over with sandpaper. “Smoky,” they called it. Pulling her blond hair into a ponytail, she swallowed hard as she pressed the MIKE button and turned up the volume, then pushed the STATION ID button at the top of the hour.