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Reagan had never pulled an all-nighter before in her life until college. She talked to her high school friends about their all-nighters, but their experiences and tips landed all over the spectrum of studying and so Reagan went into her all-nighter completely blind.

She tried not to look at her clock as she continued to stare at the barely written paper on her laptop screen. She sighed and hung her head in defeat. As she sat at her desk, her writing playlist continued to play and she grew irritated at the songs that used to pick her spirit up.

“I need better music.”

Regan pulled her earbuds out of her laptop and plugged them into her music player. She turned on the radio and the jaded sound of static filled the void. Late night talk shows, loud rap songs, and overplayed pop tracks covered the radio spectrum. Despite her range of selections Reagan failed to find a station to soothe her irritation. Even the campus radio failed to provide solace.

“Please, I’m begging you.”

She stopped pressing the next button and began manually scrolling through radio waves. An upbeat indie song answered her after a few tries. The quality of the noise failed to achieve the same quality of a normal radio station--so it had less than optimal equipment--yet Reagan only knew of one campus controlled radio stations.

The last notes of the song faded away and the host began speaking. “It’s two in the morning, dear listener.” The voice sounded like a student; masculine, velvety yet not deep like an full grown adult. “Congrats on staying up so late on a Tuesday morning. I know how tedious Non-Fictions papers can be, especially from Mr. Merida's class.”

Reagan glanced at her laptop screen. The barebone essay glared back at her, pockets of paragraphs empty of information. The radio announcer had her essay situation down to the professor who assigned it. “How in the world?” She whispered, the announcer continued.

“I wish everyone pulling their all-nighter tonight--veterans and rookies--luck and fantastic analysis on their papers, projects, and other ridiculous homework assignments. Goodness knows we all need help during the first wave of assignments. I’m your host Radiohead and this is 99.3: the station designed only for you, dear listener.” The smooth voice faded away and another indie song filled the void.

Reagan drew in a hasty breath, realizing that she held it in during Radiohead’s speech. The slow notes floated around her earbuds, typically sleep inducing, but the buzz of the hidden connection energized Reagan and she typed furiously, her writer’s block destroyed with a few simple words. As she typed, she sent a silent message out into the radio waves, thanking Radiohead, whoever he was.

~*~

Reagan wanted to cry. She pushed away from her notes and pulled out her earbuds. The people around her continued their work, completely oblivious to the tears and reddened face she wore. The library was filled to the brim with college students, yet Reagan felt like the only one in the world.

She glanced at her watch and sighed, three hours and she had yet to talk to a single human being except for the occasional “thank you” and “excuse me”. She didn’t exactly thrive on being around people, but she needed a conversation every once in a while to thrive properly.

Thinking of the next best thing, Reagan plugged her earbuds into her music player and scrolled through the radio stations, hitting her favorite. The upbeat indie song smoothed out her frantic nerves for a minute or so until the song ended, fading away into background noise.

“Hello, dear listener,” Radiohead hummed. He sighed heavily soon after, “I have a dilemma. After three years of radio work, I have grown tired of music; of all genres.”

Reagan stifled a laugh, covering her mouth. “You’re a radio show host. You can’t grow tired of music.”

“So instead of our usual music montage, I am going to read one of my favorite books to you, dear listener. I may not have the same skills that a professional narrator has, but I make up for it in style and determination.” He chuckled quietly to himself, opening a book. He flipped through the first few pages, clearing his throat. “The Knife of Never Letting Go, by Patrick Ness.” His velvety voice began to read aloud the first few chapters of the book, bending and weaving a tale of a young boy learning about the dark secret of his town.

Reagan had never heard of the book before, but she fell in love with the world instantly. The reading level of the book was certainly not at a college level, but the message behind the words resonated with Reagan clearly. She closed her laptop and her books, leaning back in her chair. She let the tears in her eyes flow freely down her face--no one around paid attention to her before, they wouldn’t now either--and listened to Radiohead read his book, speaking only to her.

While her anxiety spiral did not magically fix itself during Radiohead’s reading, listening to him certainly made her feel less terrible. She did not feel great, but she no longer fell down the dark abyss of her negative thoughts.

“And that’s where we’ll end for today, dear listener,” Radiohead sighed, closing the book in the background. “I hope you’ve enjoyed listening to me butcher my favorite book. It would be great if you checked it out from your local library or bookshop. Now back to our regularly scheduled music. I’m thinking of some battle music, because how do we know if we’re in an adventure if we don’t have background music?” He flipped a dial and an orchestra piece filled the airwaves, gaining speed and intensity.

Reagan wiped away the tears from her face and blew her nose, catching the eye of the girl sitting across from her at the charging table. The blond furrowed her eyebrows and mouthed the word “okay?” Reagan smiled and nodded, answering back.

“Better.”

~*~

“This is my favorite news article, dear listener.” Radiohead informed, laughing to himself. “Listen to me, favorite news article? What sane person has a favorite news article?”

“Some guy on the radio who doesn’t know when to take a break,” Reagan answered. She stuck her legs out in front of her and reached out to her feet. She had the flexibility of a seventy-year old man and suffered greatly from it.

“A Girl Fights to be Called by Her Name in Iceland, Suing Government,” Radiohead read off. “An oldie but a goody. Spoiler alert, she wins the fight.”

The door into Reagan’s room opened as her roommate stepped in, dragging her feet against the carpet. Reagan scrambled over to her mini radio and tried to turn it off or down as fast as she could. Mia laughed as her roommate fumbled with the handheld radio like a cat with a toy.

“Worried I’ll catch you listening to country?” She asked, unhooking and rolling up her her earbuds. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“No,” Reagan muttered, holding the radio tighter to her chest. She had yet to tell anyone about Radiohead, including her roommate. “How was class?”

“Boring, as usual. The girl next to me started snoring halfway through the lecture, which pissed me off. Now, I’ve slept through many lectures, but at least I have the decency not to snore in public.” Mia dropped her backpack onto the floor and collapsed onto the couch face first. “What time is it?”

“9:42.”

“No,” Mia whined, Reagan laughed. “Why did I sign up for an early morning lecture?”

“Because you wanted to get your classes done with and have the afternoon all to yourself.” Reagan completed the rest of her morning stretches and stood up, taking the radio with her. “Mind some background music?”

“Knock yourself out,” Mia mumbled into the couch.

Reagan eased herself into her desk chair and fiddled with the various knobs. She flipped it back on and turned the dial to 99.3 to listen to the rest of Radiohead’s news segment.

Silence.

Reagan’s heart rate spiked and she tried to adjust the volume. She pressed her ear against one of the speakers and was greeted by the soft hum of static. Radiohead had gone silent for the first time since Reagan had started listening to him. A rush of questions flooded Reagan’s head as she wondered why Radiohead disappeared from the airwaves.

“You okay?” Mia asked, sitting up from the couch. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“It’s nothing,” Reagan reassured her roommate. “I’m just thinking about my essay that’s due tonight.”

“The psychology one about long-term memory?” Reagan nodded, “My old roommate from freshman year had the same one. Slaved over it for hours on end; got a high C because she failed to fully describe how memory was stored into long-term memory. Utter BS.” Mia collapsed back against the couch. “Have fun at your next class. I’m going to take a nap.”

“Yeah, have a good nap,” Reagan muttered back, still shell-shocked at the idea of Radiohead disappearing. She had only listened to him for a month or so, but he had already become a big part of her college life. Now she wondered what she would do without him.

She moved sluggishly as she got ready for her next class, her bones made of lead. She changed out of her yoga clothes, packed her backpack, and left her dorm room. She thudded down the stairs and slipped outside, wincing at the bright morning sun.

“Shake it off, Reagan,” she muttered to herself, taking the first step in her journey to her next class. She plugged in her earbuds and kept to herself as she walked past other students and faculty.

Even in early October, Reagan could feel the unbearable heat of the sun. Halloween was right around the corner and she was going to spend it sweating up a storm.

I wonder what Radiohead does for Halloween? She thought, then scowled. She was acting like some crazed fangirl the way she thought about him constantly. She needed a detox from Radiohead. In the short-run, his absence would be hard for Reagan to get over; in the long-run it would help her not lean on one person for support. Maybe him going silent was a blessing in disguise.

~*~

Being an early riser had its perks. Sure, no one else on the floor was awake in the morning, and eating breakfast alone everyday sucked, but sometimes being alone was better than being with people.

Having an entire pool to yourself was one of these perks.

Reagan swam through the water with the ease of a fish. While her typical workout consisted of running and weight lifting, she liked to spice it up every once in a while with swimming. She also needed to work up her endurance if she wanted to earn her lifeguard recertification next spring. Her mind enjoyed the work out; her body did not, however.

A moderate muscle cramp flared in her leg, rendering it useless in her workout unless she wanted to cause herself pain everytime it moved. She doggy paddled to the end of the lane, trying not to cause further injury to herself. She flopped out of the water clumsily and stood up, water dripping from her swimsuit to the tiled floor, her leg throbbing with every movement. She wrung her brown hair out and began limping to her things in the bench.

She never made it.

Reagan knew the factors and how they added up in the situation, leading her to her outcome. The wet tiled floor plus a cramped leg equaled uneven footing. If a wet ledge was added into the equation, the answer was plain and simple. Reagan slipped and fell into the water, clipping a shoulder on the ledge before sinking into the pool.

She was a strong swimmer; she was a lifeguard afterall. But with one leg and shoulder down, along with a moment of shock, Reagan sank through the water easily. In the depths, she heard the faint sound of a whistle being blown and thought, this is it: this is how I, a lifeguard, get rescued by another lifeguard. Because of a stupid leg cramp.

The chosen lifeguard lept into the water next to Reagan and grabbed her around the waist--typical underwater rescue--easily lifting her up past the surface. She coughed and sputtered, trying not to use her injured leg while she cleared her throat.

Through her water-filled ears, Reagan picked up on the lifeguard’s words. She knew the script. “My name is Sam, I’m here to help. Can you answer me?”

“Yeah,” Reagan wheezed, “I know the drill.”

Sam pushed her towards the wall and she latched onto it, still coughing. Her cramp intensified and she held onto the wall with her bad shoulder while she massaged it underwater, trying not to cry from the untense pain.

“I’m going to help you out of the water, okay?”

“Don’t push me up, pull me from the ledge,” Reagan informed. “I have a stupid leg cramp; that’s why I fell into the water.”

“Can you hold on for the other guards to get here, then?”

“Do I have to be backboarded out of the water?” Reagan whined.

“If you want to lessen your leg cramp, then yes.”

“No, I’ll tough it out.”

Sam laughed, passing his guard tube to keep Reagan afloat. He treaded water easily as she clung to the tube. “Who knew that lifeguards were the worst victims?”

Reagan’s face burned and she splashed him. “Shut up.”

The other guards on duty appeared, one carrying a bright orange backboard; the other a bright red first aid pack. “Leg cramp and a bruised shoulder. No sign of concussion.”

One guard cracked a smile. “So, you’re just chilling in the water?”

“No backboard!” Reagan retorted.

“She’s a lifeguard,” Sam informed at his confused coworkers.

The second guard laughed, her eyes shining. “That’s embarrassing.”

“Just get me out of here.”

Reagan reached out with her good hand and the first guard grabbed her arm while the second latched onto her injured side. The two guards hoisted Reagan out of the pool and onto the floor, where she immediately began massaging her leg cramp.

“Ice or heat?” A guard asked, kneeling down next to Reagan.

“Ice. Why do you I need three guards to care for me? It’s just a leg cramp.”

“We’re bored. The only thing we do is yell at rowdy teenagers on the rockwall. I’ve worked here for three years and I have yet to make a save.”

“That means you’re doing your job correctly.” Reagan continued massaging her leg, which decided to cramp even more. She swallowed back tears; she was not going to cry in front of three lifeguards who thought saving her was the highlight of their day.

“I’ve got this; you two can head back.” Sam huffed as he scrambled out of the pool. Water dripped down from his ginger hair onto the tiled floor, furthering its slipperiness.

“Fine,” the female guard said, picking up the backboard. The other guard grabbed the first aid kit, tossed an ice pack to Reagan, and followed his coworker.

“Let’s get you off of the floor, huh?” Same said, unhooking the guard tube strap from his chest. He began bending down.

“I can stand without your help,” Reagan huffed.

Sam clicked his tongue and knelt down, staring Reagan in the eyes. “I know you don’t like being in this situation. But I’m trying to help; I’m trying to do my job as a lifeguard to help people.”

Reagan sighed, knowing that her stubbornness caused more trouble than her injury. “Sorry. Yes, I accept your help.” She eased herself to her feet with the help of Sam, careful to keep all of her weight off of her bad leg. She threw out her arm and wrapped it across Sam’s shoulders, making him a makeshift crutch. She hobbled to the bench where her stuff sat and she plopped down onto her towel, clutching her aching leg muscle.

“Thanks,” she muttered, her focus on the flaring pain.

Sam grinned at her, “no problem. Yell if you need help.” He gave her a wave before heading back to his station.

Reagan dug through her bag and pulled out her music player. Against her better judgement, she scrolled through the radio broadcasts before she landed on 99.3. A classic rock song played, something that Reagan’s mom would belt out in the car on a highway. She picked up on a few of the lyrics and laughed, hearing the word water.

“Of course,” she sighed, “typical of him.”

~*~

The semester dragged on like any school year for Reagan. She no longer counted dates or days; she counted the amount of time she had before tests and papers and breaks. Parents visited, she visited home, football games came and went. The only time she appeared in the moment was when she hung out with friends.

And when she listened to Radiohead, of course.

His broadcast was always on, twenty-four seven. He never took a break, never stopped playing music. He presence was a constant reminder to Reagan that there was someone out there in the world, speaking into the radio waves, hoping that others were listening. As Reagan continued listening to him, she picked up on his humor and music choices.

During football games Radiohead played classic rock and fight songs. October he played spooky music through November and into December. “I refused to believe it is already December. If you want holiday music, go to a different station. We’re still spooky here.” During midterms and finals he played soothing classical and never talked. The day of Dance Marathon he played EDM and dance music. He had a song for every situation.

Except for one.

Reagan stayed out late her last night before going home for winter. She hung out with her floormates and celebrated a semester well done. Only five more to go. At three in the morning she made it back to her room, exhausted after being the group mom for the entire night. She shut the door, crawled into bed, and plugged in her music player, playing her usual radio station.

In her drained state, she struggled to pick up on when the song ended and when Radiohead started speaking. She began listening halfway through his speech. “--my last year here. I don’t know what’s going to happen to this station. It’s not exactly a campus radio station,” he let out a short, sad chuckle. “It’s just me, in this booth, spouting nonsense twenty-four seven. For the last three years this station has been my rock. Tests, exams, papers, terrible roommates, panic attacks, depressive bouts. No matter what, I can always rely on this station. But after this semester,” he sighed again, his voice trailing away from the microphone. “I don’t know anymore. I don’t know.”

A tear slipped down Reagan’s face and landed on her pillow case. She sniffled and pulled her earbuds out of her ears, welcoming the silence of the dorm room. She would have to get used to it, in the end.

~*~

Compared to her first semester, Reagan’s second semester of her sophomore year crawled on at a sluggish pace. Weekends fluttered by and weekdays seemed to move through molasses. Every hour spent at her job in the dining hall was an hour in hell. Her solaces consisted of her roommate, friends, the pool, and of course, Radiohead.

Not once since the night during finals week had he mentioned leaving the radio station. Reagan believed the whole conversation to be a dream, influenced by lack of sleep and excitement from finals being over. Radiohead had always been his cheery self since day one.

The campus’ memorial union was quiet during finals week. Eerily quiet. Reagan’s footsteps clapped like thunder in the hallway. She had finished her last final a while ago and needed to bide her time while her friends finished their finals. Taking a walk around campus seemed like the best idea, instead of isolating herself in her room like always.

After living on campus for two years, Reagan thought she had explored every inch of the union, but fate proved her wrong.

She opened an unmarked door and found a stairwell tucked away in the corner of the union. She marched down a flight and found a door slightly ajar at the base of the steps. Throwing caution into the wind, Reagan shuffled up and peeked into the room, wondering if it was a classroom or a lecture hall. Silence greeted her and she opened the door wider, slipping into the room.

A gigantic storage closet laid itself out in front of her filled with all kinds of forgotten items. Books, vinuls, office supplised sat in cardboard bozrs stacked on shelves. Shelf after shelf filled the room, forming a dizzying labyrinth. Reagan stepped around the shelves, peering into random boxes.

A squeaky door closed loudly, scaring the socks off of Reagan. She gasped and whirled around, trying to find the source of the noise. She looked around the room but couldn’t see or hear the presence of anyone else in the room with her. Reagan stepped around the shelves towards the direction she thought she heard the door. Her heart pounded in her chest.

She turned a corner and collided with another person. Thankfully neither of them were sent flying to the ground. The only casualty were the other person’s papers that fell to the ground, fluttering and scattering on the ground like snowflakes.

“Sorry, Reagan sputtered, immediately kneeling down to pick up the papers.

“It’s okay,” the other person chuckled, his voice light. He bent down next to Reagan and shuffled together the remaining papers. “They were going to get mixed up in my backpack anyway.” He grabbed the stack that Reagan collected and shoved them away, standing up with a groan. He helped Reagan to her feet, grinning. “Not too many people know about this room, how did you find it?”

Reagan knew the smile and the messy ginger hair. She bumped into Sam, the lifeguard who “saved” her from her leg cramp. He didn’t seem to recognize her. “By chance. I had time to walk around the union and I stumbled on the stairwell that led me here.”

His smile grew, pearly whites shining in the iridescent light above. “Lucky you; it’s a great studying place.

Reagan laughed, “if I can find my way out of here it will be.”

“I know the way.” Without prompting Reagan, the ginger-haired teen turned and began making his way through the maze of bookshelves. Reagan sighed and followed after him.

During their walk, Sam hummed quietly to himself. Something deep in Reagan’s mind itched; a thought that she couldn’t quite form coherently. His voice sounded familiar, almost like a scene from a dream. Something that Reagan had encountered before, but couldn’t remember where and when.

It clicked when they reached the door. Sam put his hand on the doorknob and muttered a “ta-da”. Reagan knew she had little time to test her theory and she spoke up, putting on her announcer voice.

“I’m Radiohead and this is 99.3,” she said, her voice echoing in the quiet room.

Sam tensed up, his spine straightening under pressure. He let out a weak chuckle and glanced over his shoulder, his gaze not quite meeting Reagan’s. His soft airy voice changed into the tone that Reagan knew very well, the one she had listened to in times of need over the last year.

“A station designed only for you, dear listener,” he answered, his voice sliding over the words with ease.

Reagan’s eyes widened and she opened her mouth to speak, but Radiohead beat her. He threw out his hand to gesture to the room, his gaze lingering on the boxes. “It’s all yours,” he declared, glancing back at Reagan, “Radiohead.” She gasped and he chuckled. “Take good care of it for me, okay?”

“I--I will,” Reagan stuttered. Radiohead nodded. He opened the door and slipped out into the stairwell, disappearing with the click of the latch.

Reagan fought to catch her breath. Her chest tightened and she tried to take even breaths. She turned to where Radiohead gestured and spotted a door tucked behind a row of bookshelves. She stepped up to the blue painted door and opened it, revealing a large radio booth filled to the brim with knick-knacks and equipment. Reagan’s eyes widened as she tried to take everything in all at once.

Windows on one side of the room let in the early spring light. On the other side old fashioned polaroids of people's profiles covered the wall, each labeled with a name in quotations and a set of years. The oldest one was dated five years after the university came to be. The newest was freshly placed on the wall: a pictures of Reagan’s Radiohead smiled brightly at her, all pearly white teeth, ginger hair, and brown eyes. Sam, the lifeguard who saved her. They had met beforehand and their connection kept them together.

Reagan turned and stared at the desk in front of her. Each dial and switch was clearly marked for her to see. Two pieces of paper sat on the desk. One was a list of how to set up a broadcast, save it, and release it onto the radio. The other was a combination of a letter and a list.

Dear Radiohead,

You are now in charge of bringing joy to people who need a pick-me-up in times of need. You were selected because you too are seeking solace in this confusing time. Make the most of it.

Do not copy the previous Radiohead. Take notes form them; develop your own style.
Record your first show and never air it. Use it as a reference point.
Never tell anyone you are Radiohead except for your successor.
Take a picture and write your nickname and the amount of years you were Radiohead at the end of your term.
Have fun. This is not a job, but a hobby.

Reagan smiled and went through the steps on how to set up a broadcast. She turned on the microphone, recording button, and the cd player. Soft classical music filled the air, leftover from Sam’s broadcast. Reagan waited until the song finished before speaking. Her voice echoed from her headphones as she spoke.

“Hello, listeners. Yes, new person, but still the same station. From the ashes of one announcer’s retirement, a new one rises. This is 99.3, and I’m your host, Radiohead.”