Or not.

Thinking this, I looked down at my thumb, slipping off the thick silver ring there to read these same words. It was too big for any of my fingers, and I'd had to wrap some tape on it so it would fit, but it was just fine for now while I was still figuring out what I wanted on the one Rolly had promised me. Until then, Owen had said I could hold on to his, if only to remind me that it's always good to know your options.

"Thirty seconds," Rolly said in my headphones.

I nodded, moving my chair closer to the microphone. As the seconds counted down, I looked out the window to my left and saw a blue Land Cruiser turning into the lot. Right on time.

"And…" Rolly said, "you're on."

"That was Jenny Reef, with 'Whatever,'" I began, "and this has been Story of My Life, here on WRUS. I'm Annabel. The Herbal Prescription is next. Thanks for listening. Here's one last song."

The opening notes of Led Zeppelin's "Thank You" came on, and I pushed back my chair. Then I closed my eyes to listen, as I did every time I heard this song, my own little ritual. Just as the chorus began, I heard the door open and, a moment later, felt a hand on my shoulder.

"Please tell me," Owen said, flopping down dramatically in the chair beside me, "that I did not just hear Jenny Reef on my show."

"It was a request," I said. "And besides, you said I could play what I wanted as long as we called the show something else."

"Within reason," he said. "I mean, you just have to keep in mind that my listeners are going to be confused. They're still tuning in, and they expect quality. If possible, enlightenment. Not commercial, mass-produced crap sung by a teenager completely controlled by corporate marketing."

"Owen."

"I mean, there's room for some irony, but it's a delicate balance. Too much either way and you lose all credibility. Which means that—"

"Are you even listening to what I'm playing now?" I asked.

He stopped in mid-rant, then looked up at the speaker overhead, listening for a second. "Oh," he said. "Well, this is what I mean. This is my—"

"Favorite Led Zeppelin song," I finished for him. "I know."

In the booth, Clarke rolled her eyes.

"Okay, fine," Owen said, moving his chair closer to mine. "So you played some Jenny Reef. I thought the rest of the show was pretty good. Although I'm not sure about the juxtaposition you did in the second pairing—"

"Owen."

"—following up that Alamance track with the Etta James. It was a bit much. And—"

"Owen."

"What?"

I leaned closer to him, pressing my lips to his ear. "Shhh," I said.

He started to say something else—of course—but stopped as I slid my hand over to his, locking his fingers in mine. It wasn't over. Eventually, he'd make his point, or at least argue it into submission. But for now, the chords were building overhead, the chorus starting up again. So I moved closer to Owen, leaning my head on his shoulder to listen, as we settled into the sunlight coming through the window beside us. It was bright and warm, catching the ring on my thumb as Owen reached for it, spinning it slowly, slowly, as the song played on.