Chapter Seven
MARA
The university loses power during the exact moment Finn says, “I do not like surprises.”
The booth goes black.
For half a second, there is no sound except the ventilation fan spinning down.
Then emergency lights turn the corridor beyond the glass red.
Finn stops breathing.
Not visibly. Most people would miss it. His shoulders remain square beneath a charcoal coat. His face stays controlled.
But I have learned the absence that comes before the panic—the moment he leaves his own body to inspect it from somewhere far away.
“Power outage,” I say. “Not a surprise. An infrastructure failure with excellent timing.”
He does not answer.
We are alone at the station. Tessa left forty minutes ago to finish an assignment. Helen is at a board meeting across campus. Snow has been falling since noon, thick enough that security asked everyone to remain indoors until the plows clear the roads.
Finn came because Tessa scheduled a pre-recorded interview about his shutout record.
He stayed because the storm closed the arena.
Now the electronic lock on the station door has failed safe, which means we can open it from inside but cannot reenter. The hallway lights are dim. The stairwell is darker.
“Door open or closed?” I ask.
His gaze finds mine.
“Open.”
I prop it with a trash can.
“Hallway or booth?”
“Booth.”
I return but leave the door between us open.
The backup battery keeps one small console alive. I switch on the desk lamp connected to it. Warm light creates a circle across the microphones.
Finn puts both hands on the edge of the desk.
“Three things you hear,” I say.
“Wind.”
“Good.”
“The battery.”
Its inverter emits a faint hum.
He swallows.
“Your bracelet.”
I stop moving my wrist. Tiny metal stars have been clicking against one another.
“Feet,” I say.
He presses his boots into the floor.
“Breathe out longer than in.”
His eyes close.
I count softly.
The panic does not vanish. That is not how it works. It moves through him in waves, cresting and loosening, returning smaller. He remains in the chair. I remain across the desk.
After several minutes, he says, “Dr. Patel taught me that.”
“Then she is very smart.”
“She said you are not supposed to become my only grounding cue.”
The words surprise me.
“Did you discuss me in therapy?”
“No.”
Thumb to finger.
I lift a brow.
He looks annoyed. “Not by name.”
“What did you call me?”
“External voice.”
“That is deeply unromantic.”
His gaze sharpens.
The word hangs between us.
Romantic.
I turn toward the dark window. Snow moves sideways through the red emergency light.
“We might be here a while,” I say.
“Security will check buildings.”
“I have crackers.”
“That is not a meal.”
“I also have gummy bears.”
“That is worse.”
“You are free to eat the conflict-of-interest policy.”
We move into the lounge, where a couch, two chairs, and a vending machine occupy a room designed by someone hostile to comfort. Finn uses his phone flashlight while I locate blankets from the emergency cabinet.
“Why does a radio station have six blankets?” he asks.
“Artists cry.”
He accepts this.
I give him a granola bar. He reads the ingredients like a legal contract.
“Your donation bought better snacks,” I say.
“It was supposed to buy equipment.”
“It bought the dignity of almonds instead of fluorescent cheese powder.”
He looks at the wrapper. “This expired last month.”
“Vintage.”
We sit on opposite ends of the couch.
The silence is not uncomfortable. That surprises me most.
Outside broadcasts, I am rarely quiet. People assume I love sound. The truth is that I love chosen sound. Voices with intention. Music someone placed beside a feeling. The clean red light that says we are all listening together.
Unchosen silence reminds me of childhood dinners after my father left, my mother setting four plates for three people because habit takes longer to leave than a person.
Finn asks, “Why radio?”
I look at him.
He unwraps the expired granola bar. “You ask everyone else.”
“My mother worked nights after my father left. Sophie was at college. I was alone a lot.”
His attention remains on the wrapper, giving me privacy inside the answer.
“I found a local station that took calls after midnight. The host had a terrible voice. Nasal. Too loud. He laughed at his own jokes.”
Finn’s mouth moves.
“But every night, he said the time and the weather and what song came next. It made the house feel occupied.”
“You called?”
“Once. I was thirteen. I requested a song and lied that it was for my boyfriend.”
“Did you have one?”
“No. I had braces and a collection of novelty socks.”
“You still have novelty socks.”
“How do you know?”
“Silver boots. Pink hockey pants. Pattern.”
He notices things too.
The realization warms the room more than the blanket.
“What did you request?” he asks.
I tell him.
He knows the song.
“You listen to old music?”
“My mother.”
We talk until the emergency light stops feeling ominous. He tells me his father owns a hardware store and his mother makes quilts she refuses to sell because no one will pay what the hours are worth. I tell him Lucy believes Mr. Waddles is divorced. He says that explains the penguin’s eyes.
At eleven, the power returns with a violent buzz.
The booth lights flare.
Finn flinches but stays seated.
Feet on floor. Long exhale.
He does it without me.
Pride rises so quickly I have to swallow it.
“You did it,” I say.
His expression changes.
Sophie’s warning returns. You can care without becoming responsible.
I correct myself.
“You used what you learned.”
He nods once.
Security arrives five minutes later. The roads are still closed, so an officer offers to escort us to the athletics dorm, which has generator heat and spare rooms.
Finn looks toward the station door.
“I can sleep here,” I say.
“No.”
“Why?”
“The building heat has been off for three hours.”
“I have blankets.”
“Artists cry.”
I laugh.
He takes my coat from the hook and holds it open.
The gesture is old-fashioned and unexpectedly intimate.
I slide my arms into the sleeves.
His hands settle briefly at my shoulders.
Neither of us moves.
The security officer clears his throat from the hallway.
Finn steps back.
In the athletics dorm, we are assigned rooms across from each other. Before closing his door, he says, “Mara.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“For the expired food?”
“For not making it yours.”
I understand.
The panic. The recovery. The appointment. None of it belongs to me because I witnessed it.
“Goodnight, Finn.”
“Goodnight.”
I close my door and lean against it.
My pulse is too fast.
For once, it has nothing to do with fear.