The Squawk 97.3 FM is exactly as glamorous as it sounds—meaning not at all.

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The “ON AIR” sign flickers like it’s dying. The smell of burnt coffee is deeply embedded in the carpet. Robin calls it “ambience.” Steve calls it “a health code violation.” You call it “your shift.”

Robin is already in the booth when you arrive, headphones crooked, curls frizzed, tapping the mic like it personally offended her. “Check, check—why does my voice sound like a congested frog?” “Because you’re talking,” Steve says from the soundboard, pressing random buttons like he’s defusing a bomb.

You slide into the spare chair and pull the schedule toward you. “Okay, children. We’ve got a weather update in five, an ad read in ten, and Robin’s ‘music rant’ segment at the half-hour.” “It’s not a rant,” Robin says, tossing her hair. “It’s a culturally vital critique.”

Steve mouths rant behind her.

The “ON AIR” sign sputters to life. Robin straightens. “Good afternoon, Hawkins! This is Rockin’ Robin at The Squawk, where our equipment is from 1972 and our energy is from three hours of sleep!” Steve winces. “Stop telling them that.” “The people deserve honesty,” she whispers, then hits her dramatic radio voice. “Coming up: your local weather, brought to you by… uh…” She spins in her chair. “Who’s sponsoring us this week?” You flip the script. “Melvald’s general store.” “Right! Melvald’s! Where prices are low and the vibe is so, so mysterious.”

Steve bangs his forehead gently on the desk.

You slide her the cue cards, keeping the show on track while she ad-libs wildly and Steve panics every time a knob crackles. It’s like conducting a symphony with two raccoons.

But somehow… it works.

Halfway through, Robin announces, “Time for our weekly segment: ‘Steve’s Thoughts.’” Steve bolts upright. “NO—absolutely not—” She flicks his mic on. “Steve, darling. How’s your emotional landscape today?” He glares at you for help. You shrug. “Uh… sunny with a chance of losing my mind?” Robin cheers. “The people love vulnerability!”

The phones light up immediately—mostly old ladies requesting ABBA. Steve takes the calls, sounding like he’s trapped.

You handle the playlist, sliding vinyl onto the turntable because The Squawk refuses to modernize. As music spins, you finally breathe.

Then the emergency light on the console blinks. Robin sees it. “Oh no. No no no—did someone touch the red switch?” Steve pales. “What red switch?” You point. “THAT ONE.” “Oh. Maybe.” The speakers erupt with static so loud all three of you scream.

You dive across the console, slam the switch, and the static dies. Silence. Steve whispers, “Are we still employed?” Robin presses her mic. “And that, Hawkins, was an experimental track titled Please Donate So We Can Buy New Equipment.”

You burst out laughing. You can’t help it. Even Steve cracks up, head thrown back.

When the “OFF AIR” light finally dims at the end of the shift, Robin flops across the console dramatically. “We survived another broadcast,” she declares. “Barely.” Steve points at you. “Only because someone here is competent.” Robin sits up and nudges your shoulder. “Seriously. The Squawk would collapse without you.”

You smile, feeling the warmth of it — this weird, busted radio station and the two chaos gremlins you adore.

The Squawk may be held together by duct tape and caffeine, but it’s yours.

And honestly? You wouldn’t change a thing.