The air inside WRYL Studios was thick with the scent of dust, old electronics, and coffee. It was the smell of analog broadcasting being done on a shoestring budget. In the small, bustling reception area, a woman with a bouffant hairdo kept her gaze fixed downward, her fingers a blur on the typewriter.

“Good afternoon,” Ethan said, his voice hesitant.

Clack-clack-clack. The woman didn’t pause.

“I’m Ethan,” he tried again, taking a step closer. “I… uh… I just got a call. My show?”

The woman stopped abruptly, snatched the paper from the carriage with a rip, and looked up, her expression a mix of impatience and professionalism. Her eyes were framed by sharp cat-eye glasses.

“About time, Ethan! Mr Stoddard wants to see you right away. He’s in his office.” She pointed to a closed office door. Ethan just stood there confused, unsure of what to do. The receptionist snapped. “Try to keep up, dear.” She punctuated her statement with a shaming glance at his vintage casual wear and a finger pointing to the closed office door..

“R-right,” Ethan stammered, feeling like a high school kid late for detention. He turned and walked towards the designated door. The wall behind Ethan was lined with framed, yellowing photographs of stern-looking men and women in suits—presumably past station managers or local celebrities. The door was marked with a gold-plated sign: E. G. STODDARD, STATION MANAGER.

Ethan knocked.

“It’s open, you insufferable nitwit! Get in here!” roared the same booming voice Ethan heard on the phone.

Taking a fortifying breath, Ethan pushed the door open. Behind a massive, cluttered metal desk sat a man who filled his tweed jacket completely. He had a bristly gray crew cut and a face that looked perpetually annoyed.

“There you are,” Stoddard barked, pointing a stumpy finger at a clock on the wall. “Twenty minutes to air. You’ve been late three times this month, Ethan. Three times! You keep this up, and the sponsors will pull the plug on ‘Ethan’s Afternoon Exchange.’ You want to go back to scrubbing dishes at the Lunch Box Cafe?”

“No, sir, I don’t,” Ethan answered, swallowing the impulse to inform the man he had never scrubbed dishes in his life. Everything he was hearing felt like a line of dialogue from a play he hadn’t rehearsed.

Stoddard ignored him and shoved a typed sheet of paper across the desk. “News first. You need to hit these three headlines hard. The new community pool—it’s the biggest project since the war. Second, the missing Royal High School mascot uniform—it’s a scandal. And third, make sure you mention Mrs. Gable’s prize-winning roses again. She buys ad time. You scratch her back, she scratches ours.”

Ethan picked up the paper, his eyes scanning the impossible, anachronistic news items: “Pool construction ahead of schedule.” “Manhunt for perpetrator of mascot theft.” He was being asked to discuss current events in a town he didn’t even recognize an hour ago.

“And what is the interview?” Ethan asked, trying to sound professional and not completely insane.

Stoddard sighed, rubbing his temples. “The usual routine. Mrs. Percy from the Garden Club is coming in to discuss the annual Lilac Festival. She’s bringing her notorious triple-layered lemon cake. Be nice, nod a lot, and for heaven’s sake, don’t mention her ex-husband. Last time you did, she almost threw a vase at you.”

Ethan blinked. He had a history here. Apparently a clumsy, tactless history with Mrs. Percy.

“Alright, Ethan, listen up,” Stoddard said, leaning forward. “This station is the heartbeat of Royal. It’s a good job, a steady gig, and you’ve got a real knack for it. But you need to be professional. Get it together. Now, go warm up your voice and get into Studio A. I’ll send the engineer in shortly.”

Stoddard gestured toward another door within the office.

“Studio A?” Ethan inquired.

“Yes, Studio A! Where you host your show five days a week! Now move!”

Ethan retreated, stumbling into a small sound-proofed room. It was tiny, dominated by a large microphone and a console covered in sliders and knobs. Through a thick glass window, he could see a second room with a turntable and a reel-to-reel tape machine. The air was colder here, quieter. The world outside felt very far away.

He sat down in the upholstered chair, the smooth vinyl squeaking under his weight. He touched the heavy, chrome microphone grille, feeling a sudden, strange rush of adrenaline. He was about to go on the air as a radio host in a 1950s-era town that had materialized out of thin air.

This is it, Ethan thought, placing his hands on the worn desk.

The door opened, and a middle aged man with thick black glasses and a worried expression slipped in, clutching a stack of 45-rpm records.

“Ethan, you look pale. Did you get any sleep? Stoddard’s furious,” the man said, his eyes magnified through the thick lenses. He smelled faintly of mint and engine oil.

“I… I’m fine, just a little off,” Ethan said, studying the man’s familiar-but-unknown face. “And you are?”

The man stared, flabbergasted. “It’s me! Bobby! Your engineer! Are you still mad about that time I accidentally played the wrong ad and you had to fill four minutes with a story about a goat?”

“Oh! Bobby! Right,” Ethan mumbled, trying to connect the dots. “No, not mad, just… stressed.

Bobby, visibly relieved, flipped a switch on the console in front of Ethan, causing the words “ON AIR” to glow red..

“Theme music is cued up. Five seconds,” Bobby announced, tapping a gauge on the console. “Remember to hit the news first, and for God’s sake, say hi to Mrs. Gable! She’s listening!”

Bobby quickly retreated to the engineer’s room, giving a thumbs-up through the glass.

Ethan felt his heart hammer against his ribs. He was staring at the microphone, an inert piece of metal that was about to connect him to an entire town of strangers who thought they knew him.

The music swelled, a bright, jazzy, slightly tinny melody. A green light on the console flashed.

He cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and leaned into the microphone.

“Good afternoon, Royal! This is…” he paused for a fraction of a second, “…Ethan.”

The jangling repetition of an alarm clock ripped Ethan out of a deep, dreamless sleep. Groaning, he reached across the expanse of the mattress and slapped the alarm off. He turned over, sinking back into the pillow, but something pricked his consciousness. That alarm clock never worked before.

Ethan slowly rolled onto his back and gazed up at the ceiling. Where was the signature patch of mildew? The tell-tale water stains from the leaky roof that had dripped on his first night? Instead, the ceiling was immaculate, the light fixture clean and new.

Ethan heard the first distinct sounds from outside: voices, clear and conversational, followed by the sputtering, ratcheting start of a lawnmower. The noise startled him. He sat up too fast. A wave of dizziness and disorientation washing over him.

Then the room snapped into focus. The walls were freshly painted, the hardwood floors gleaming, cleaned and polished to a rich luster. The furniture, which had been broken relics, was now new, dust-free, and perfectly arranged. Everything was in place. Nothing was lying on the floor.

Ethan stumbled over to the dresser and stared into the mirror. He was wearing pajamas. He definitely hadn’t packed pajamas in his meager luggage. He stared at his reflection. He hadn’t changed. But everything around him had.

Ethan bolted to the window and looked out. The view had been transformed. The houses weren’t dilapidated shells; they were in pristine shape. Freshly painted homes with manicured lawns. This wasn’t a ghost town. The trees were bursting with leaves, flowers bloomed in neat beds, and the distinct, sweet scent of lilacs drifted in the air.

Ethan heard the voices again, closer now. People were outside. Some relaxing on their porches, others walking along the sidewalk. Kids played tag on the grass or rode their bikes. Several cars were parked along the curb, and occasionally, one would drive by.

Ethan stood glued to the glass, his mouth gaping wide. What is going on?

People! The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. Without stopping to process the bizarre shift, Ethan tore down the stairs and burst out the front door, stopping dead on the porch. The sheer reality of the vibrant, breathing town left him utterly dumbfounded.

“Hey, Ethan! Those are some mighty fine PJs!” a man from the house next door called out, with a friendly, familiar grin on his face. “Don’t you think you should get dressed? You’ll be on the air soon.”

“Yes,” Ethan muttered, still dazed. “On the air.” The phrase meant nothing. He realized the man, and several other people, had stopped what they were doing and were simply staring. Kids pointed and giggled. People across the street paused their conversations to look and gesture.

Feeling a sudden, overwhelming blush, Ethan forced a tight smile, backed awkwardly through the door, and closed it quickly.

The inside of the house was a revelation. The living room and dining room glowed with perfect restoration. The old, dirty furniture looked new and clean. The floors were spotless. Fresh curtains hung on sparkling windows. The bookshelf near the fireplace was full of books, the coffee table topped with a neat stack of magazines.

The dining room looked like a museum exhibit. Corner hutches were filled with delicate dishes and glasses. The chandelier’s crystals shone brightly. A lace tablecloth adorned the six-chaired table, a candelabra sitting ready in the center. The two rooms, impeccable and welcoming, reminded him instantly of his grandfather’s house.

Still reeling, Ethan drifted into the kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks. The linoleum floor was a crisp black and white checkerboard, slippery with a fresh coat of wax under his socks. The wood cabinets were a cheerful mint green, contrasting sharply with the white stove and refrigerator. The countertops were an eye-popping mint green and magenta checkerboard Formica pattern. There was a chrome bread box, a chrome electric coffee pot, a radio, and a chrome toaster. A chrome kitchen table with a bright red Formica top and matching vinyl chairs anchored the room.

He opened the refrigerator; it was fully stocked with food he liked. Drawers and cabinets held new cookware. The pantry was full.

Ethan sank onto one of the kitchen chairs, burying his face in his hands. “What is going on here?” he muttered.

Then a telephone rang.

“This is a dream. I need to wake up,” he repeated, walking toward the annoying ringing.

A large black rotary phone sat in an alcove off the dining room. Ethan stared at it, letting it ring several times before his nerve finally broke through the confusion. He picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

On the other end, a booming, impatient voice shouted, “Where are you? Your show starts in an hour! There are a few things we have to discuss. Get down here!”

“My show?” Ethan asked weakly.

The voice turned frantic. “I don’t know what you’ve been smoking, and I don’t care, but you better shake that reefer madness out of your head and get to the studio!”

Ethan slowly pieced together a word. “Studio?”

“Yeah, that brown brick building with those four letters on the front window—W-R-Y-L,” the voice roared, adding sarcastically, “Just off Main Street as you pass the Lunchbox Cafe. Now get your ass here, now!”

Ethan slowly hung up the phone. He sat on the couch, stunned. WRYL. Studio. Show.

A cold shower brought Ethan one step closer to reality. The bathroom was white subway tile with navy blue trim in a geometric pattern. All the bathroom fixtures were white. Ethan found a razor, shaving soap, tooth brush and tooth paste in the medicine cabinet. The morning started feeling better.

In the bedroom, Ethan searched for his clothes. They were gone. His cooler, suitcase, and backpack all vanished. Only his violin remained, tucked safely in its case. He pulled out some casual clothes from the closet and drawers – styles that felt decidedly vintage, but well-kept. Looking into the dresser mirror, he adjusted the collar. “Not bad looking,” he admitted to his reflection.

He ran downstairs and stepped outside, turning onto the sidewalk leading to Main Street. He nodded to a man polishing his sedan and exchanged a cordial “Good afternoon” with a woman holding a shopping basket.

As he walked past Anderson’s Hardware Store, Mr. Anderson rushed out, handing Ethan a can of deep forest green paint that Ethan ordered a few days ago.”The perfect color for your porch railing, Mr. Anderson said.

Crossing the street, he passed the Lunch Box Cafe. Pastor Dzef jogged out, presenting Ethan with a thick, cold chocolate malt. They chatted briefly, their familiarity unnerving, before Ethan continued toward his mysterious workplace.

He walked past the Royal Theater, its marquee lights flashing. He turned the corner, his destination a small brick building in the middle of the block. Painted on the front window were the letters W R Y L Studios.

Ethan walked up the short steps to the door and turned around. The town of Royal was alive, thriving, and bustling with activity. This was not a dream.

He turned back to the door, took a deep breath, reached out, turned the knob, and walked into the WRYL studios.