Chapter Twenty-Seven
MARA
The fundraiser reaches five thousand dollars because Jace sells the right to cut his hair.
This is not a sentence I expected to say professionally.
At the live Keep the Signal On event, Harbor Ice becomes equal parts hockey rink, radio studio, bake sale, and public auction.
The women’s and men’s teams run skills stations.
Local musicians perform near the concourse.
Sophie sells pasta containers from a folding table.
Lucy charges one dollar for legal consultations from Mr. Waddles.
Jace stands on a platform beneath a banner reading SAVE RADIO, DESTROY HAIR.
His curls have achieved mythological status.
Bids begin at twenty dollars.
Rowan offers fifty.
Theo offers one hundred to stop her from choosing the style.
Rowan raises to one fifty.
Theo says, “This is misuse of charitable giving.”
She smiles. “Afraid of competition, Captain?”
He bids two hundred.
By the time a local salon owner wins for six hundred dollars, Jace is clutching his head and the audience is chanting.
Tessa broadcasts from rinkside.
I host the main stage.
Finn is not present.
He texted Helen directly and asked whether attendance would create pressure. She told him the event was open to everyone but no athlete was required. He chose to attend a team counseling session scheduled after the playoff series.
The decision hurts.
It also feels respectful.
At eight, Owen and Lena appear on video from a professional arena concourse. Owen offers a signed first-goal puck for auction. Lena offers a remote biomechanics workshop. Their items raise nine hundred dollars.
At nine thirty, the total reaches seven thousand four hundred.
Six hundred short.
The event ends at ten.
I return to the booth and prepare the final hour. The station account updates slowly as online donations process.
Seven thousand five hundred.
Seven thousand six hundred and twelve.
Then a new gift appears.
Anonymous — $388
My body goes cold.
The total becomes eight thousand exactly.
Tessa sees my face. “What?”
I show her.
“Finn?”
“I do not know.”
Anger, love, disappointment, fear—every emotion crowds the booth.
I call Helen.
She checks the payment processor.
“The donor selected anonymous public display,” she says. “The foundation administrator can see the name.”
“Is it Finn?”
A pause.
“No.”
Relief is so strong I sit down.
“Who?”
“I cannot tell you without permission.”
At ten, I go on air.
“We reached the goal,” I say, and my voice breaks.
Tessa squeezes my shoulder.
“The final gift came from a donor who chose not to display a name publicly, but it was processed through our independent foundation with no restrictions and full internal disclosure. That distinction matters. Transparency does not require every private person to become public. It requires accountability.”
The station lights blur through tears.
“This signal belongs to the people who use it. Tonight, more than four hundred of you kept it on.”
We play the repaired turntable.
The song is the one Finn heard after North Ridge.
I did not choose it for him.
I chose it because it belongs to the station’s history now.
After the show, Helen enters with an envelope.
“The final donor gave permission for you to know,” she says.
Inside is a note written in shaky blue ink.
Dear Mara,
My son listened to your station during his first year when he was lonely and too proud to call home. I listened last week when you talked about changing plans. I have had panic attacks for twenty years. Your voice did not cure them. It made me less ashamed. Please keep talking.
—Colleen Callahan
I cover my mouth.
Finn’s mother.
Not Finn’s money. Her choice. Transparent. Unrestricted. Exactly enough because she had been watching the total.
At the bottom, she added:
Finn does not know. Please tell him only if you wish. He is very bad at receiving family news from the internet.
I laugh through tears.
Then I call Sophie.
“I think I know what happens next,” I say.
“With Finn?”
“With me.”
The answer is not a relationship decision.
That is why it feels true.
“I want the fellowship,” I say. “I want the series. I want to make work about people without turning their pain into proof of my value.”
“And Finn?”
“I love him.”
“Both.”
“I still hate that word.”
“No, you do not.”
I look through the booth glass at the red ON AIR sign, dark now but ready.
“No,” I say. “I don’t.”