Page 60 of Unalive On Air

Eventually, through some small miracle, he locates the Sound Store app and logs in.

“Tell him to go to settings and press ‘link new microphone,’” I say. “And then, Stove, use this AUX cable to connect your boom mic.”

I puff out a breath and cross my fingers as Stove slides the cable’s plug into the ghost microphone.

“Looking for devices . . .” Josh reads aloud from the screen.

We crowd around so close that we’re all pressed together. Stove on my right. Trystan on my left. Pixie at my front. Camille behind me.

A loading icon appears. A circle chasing itself like an Ouroboros and then . . .

“No new devices found,” Josh says.

I want to cry.

“Try again!” Stove yells before I can respond.

Josh hits the button again. The circle spins once more. Pixie blows out a shaky breath.

“Connect to Fox MZ seventy-two?” Josh asks.

I stare open-mouthed at Stove. Now I’m crying. It worked. Technology is able to operate on ghost frequencies.

I guess all that stuff about electromagnetic waves Ted was banging on about during induction actually meant something. Once again, I wish I’d listened and not dismissed everyone there as certifiable grifters.

“Yes!” Stove yells. “That’s my mic.”

Josh clicks connect, and a few moments pass by where we all stare at the screen. “It’s live. I think.”

I lean closer, practically pushing Pixie aside. “Testicles . . . Testicles . . . One, two, three.”

Nothing.

Fuck.

No vibrations are picked up on my laptop.

“Oh, wait!” Josh says, noticing what I’ve noticed the exact moment I notice it. He toggles the “mic on” switch to blue.

“Testing!” I yell.

A pink sound wave dances on the screen, and Josh practically falls backwards through us.

“I can hear you!”

This must be what surfing feels like. Must be why Trystan spends his time on the ocean surface, because right now, I’m riding some kind of wave, and it feels fucking fantastic.

“Josh?” I say. “While we have Franny’s body, I need you to log into the website that hosts the podcasts. Okay?”

“Sure, just walk me through it.”

“We’ll need a name for the new podcast,” I say into the mic. “The station owns the IP of the old one.”

Jeanie answers. “It’s Unalive on Air, and that’s that. If they want it, they can prise it from your cold, dead fingers.”

“What does IP mean?” Peter says groggily from the chaise longue.

“Yeah,” Trystan says. “What are they gonna do? Sue a ghost?”