DJ Fefe watched the needle on the studio meter twitch and die. Six in the morning, and WJWD FM was pushing dead air across Donnellila again. He tapped the microphone. The meter jumped, then flatlined. Somewhere out in town, a farmer was reaching for his dial and turning it to silence. Fefe was seventeen. He had answered the notice in the Donnell Gazette three weeks ago because nobody older wanted the job. The station sat behind clean glass walls under a tower taller than the chapel steeple. Inside, one boy, one chair, and a wall of switches he was still learning. He had read weather. He had read the courthouse docket. He had read scores from the field stadium. None of it made anyone stay. He pulled a crate of records from under the desk. His father's crate. Country on top, gospel below, and at the bottom a stack of scratched blues seven-inches nobody in town played anymore. Fefe set one on the turntable and cued it up. Then he leaned into the microphone. "Good morning, Donnellila. This is DJ Fuzzy J. If you're up, you're up with me. If you're not, I'm about to fix that." He dropped the needle. Harmonica cracked through the speakers. He let it ride ten seconds, then cut the volume under and kept talking. "Coffee's brewing at the bakery. Sheriff's truck is already parked at the diner. And I've got a name for anybody who calls the studio line in the next hour and tells me one true thing about their morning." He gave the number twice. He brought the music back up. The phone did not ring for four minutes. Fefe stared at it. He thought about the notice in the paper. He thought about his mother saying nobody would listen to a kid. The phone rang. He grabbed it. A woman's voice, tired, amused. She said her rooster was dead and her husband was crying about it. Fefe laughed before he could stop himself. He put her on the air. She told the story again. He named the rooster Governor and promised a moment of silence at seven. The second call came before he hung up the first. By seven-thirty the board had four lines lit. Fefe was writing names on a scrap of paper, calling them back in order, spinning records between. He called the hour The Fuzzy J Wake-Up. He said it three times so it would stick. At eight he signed off and sat back. His shirt was soaked through. The meter was steady. Outside the glass, a delivery man on the curb had stopped walking to listen through his truck window. The studio phone rang again. Fefe picked it up, expecting another caller. It was the head judge's office. They wanted to know who had authorized him to name a dead rooster on public airwaves, and whether the station carried a broadcast license at all.