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cue on the Denon CD player. Twelve more seconds of Mariah Carey trying to shatter glass. He rubbed his forehead.
    "But they's lights , don't you see?” the caller said. “Up in the woods. Might be one of them UFO's I been hearing about."
    Why would an intelligent alien species want to land in Windshake? Robert slid a CD into the second player.
    "Maybe you ought to videotape it and send it in to Unsolved Mysteries ," he said. "Listen, I've got to go. Bye, now, and thanks for listening to WRNC.”
    He hung up the phone and flipped the mic switch over at the same time. He drew air down into his abdomen, the way he had learned in college, and belted out in his artificially cheery baritone.
    "That was 'Dream Lover' by Mariah Carey."
    And I hope you were smart enough to turn your radio off before she really got rolling.
    "It's fourteen minutes after eleven and forty-one degrees in the High Country under cloudy skies. Bobby Lee here sharing your day with you."
    Only because I can't find a better job.
    "You're listening to AM 1220, WRNC, your source for local news and sports.”
    Because all our sponsors ARE the news or else their sons play on the high school football team.
    "Coming up after the break, I'll have a look at the weather."
    Let the radio crap on your head for three more minutes just so I can tell you what you would already know if you had enough sense to look out the window. And I'm really being a flaming asswipe today, so I'll shut up now.
    Robert punched the button on the cart player. Save-a-Ton was having a sale on spare ribs. The cart machine held three spots that fired off in sequence, so Robert had time to leave the control room and catch a couple of drags off a cigarette. He swung open the back door and stood under the small awning, watching the weeds wilt in the gravel parking lot.
    Betty Turnbill, the station secretary, stepped out beside him.
    "Mornin', Bobby." She batted her false eyelashes. "Mind if I join you?"
    "It's a free country," Robert said, sucking smoke into his lungs. Betty tucked a cigarette between her rose-painted lips and leaned forward, expecting a light. Her red bouffant wiggled slightly as she shook her shoulders.
    It was the first time Robert had ever seen her hair actually move. Well, except for that one time, but it had been dark then. And he was positive he'd be reminded of that for the rest of his career at WRNC.
    Robert fumbled in his pockets and drew out a Bic and put fire to the end of Betty's Virginia Slim. She puffed, making caves in her hollow jaws, and exhaled a curling gray pillar of smoke. Robert looked at her. Her hazel irises clashed miserably with her aqua eye shadow, and the blush on her cheekbones looked as if it had been applied with a putty knife. She drew the cigarette away from her mouth and tiny clumps of lipstick clung to the butt. The sight made the coffee in his stomach gurgle and roil.
    She jutted her tiny chin toward him and smiled. The aroma of her Elizabeth Taylor perfume hung around the doorway despite the brisk wind. Robert guessed the fragrance was probably heavier than air, and didn't drift away so much as sag to the ground.
    "Got to go," he muttered, flipping his half-finished cigarette into a mud puddle. "Melvin would scream bloody murder if we had a second of dead air.”
    "Bye, Bobby. Come up and see me sometime."
    Mae West in Minnie Pearl's body. No, thank you, darlin’. Once was one time too many.
    Robert rushed into the studio just as the tag on the last commercial trailed away. He slipped on the headphones and opened the mic.
    "And Billy Buck Dodge-Jeep-Chrysler would like to congratulate Edna Massey for winning this month's gingerbread bake-off," Robert said, settling into the control room’s swivel chair. "Well, the weather word for today is rain , and I'd say fifty percent chance is as good a guess as any, starting this afternoon and tapering off around midnight. Highs will be in the fifties and lows in the upper thirties."
    He started the CD