Cecil whipped around to open the door again, but he found the radio station's translucent doors with the station logo printed on them. Resigned, he twisted and faced Steve. "What's going on?" he asked.

Steve shrugged. "Beats me. I tried walking into my house. Ended up here."

"Me, too," Cecil said, looking around. "NVCR looks the same as we left it. But..." His eyes trailed over the OFF AIR sign in the upper corner of the lobby. "Shouldn't we be back on?"

"After the musical break, yeah," Steve said, glancing back to see the sign. "My question here is, why did we end up back here?"

"Because our presence was needed," Cecil said, adjusting his shirt's collar. "I'm relieved to still have my intern shirt on, at the very least."

"Of all things to be worried about, you're concerned about that, Cecil?"

"Yes?" Cecil raised an eyebrow, as if his shirt wasn't the thing to be most concerned about.

He spotted the picture frames on the wall that displayed various past interns and photos of the various community members gathering for group photos. Two of the photos faded into a charcoal void that reminded Cecil of the weather from two nights ago. Inside the golden frames, the oblivion stirred, rippling as a new object formed.

"What are those things doing?" Steve asked, staring at the two photo frames.

"Sending us mail," Cecil said in his matter-of-fact tone.

"There are envelopes forming in those frames."

"Yes." Cecil blinked as he mentally added the mailing system to the list of Normal Things Steve Carlsberg Did Not Understand. When the envelopes fully formed inside the frames, he reached in and pulled the envelopes from the two separate frames. The endless ink void tickled Cecil when he reached in, sprinkles of void water misting his skin as he pulled out.

"That's breaking the laws of physics," Steve said as Cecil handed him the envelope addressed to a Mr. Carlsberg.

Cecil glanced at the frames, which had returned to their intern memory beauty. He pulled open the envelope flap, fingers sliding under and pulling out the letter concealed inside. He opened the note and saw the symbols, withholding a sigh in the case that Station Management was watching.

Steve Carlsberg believed otherwise. "I can't believe this," he groaned. "It's entirely in Sumerian."

"We did take classes. It would make sense to review."

"This is absurd! There is no one speaking this ancient—!" Steve sighed after a cross look from Cecil. "All right. If we both focus on translating, we'll figure this out in no time. Cooperation is the key. There are people speaking Sumerian, and I'm just aware. Accept it and move on, Steve. Accept it and move on."

Cecil nodded, gaze already concentrated on the letter. He judged the symbols in his mind, weighed the translation options, and pieced the letter's contents together piece by piece.

The silence between them reminded Cecil of the day Steve Carlsberg asked him out. It was in the early hours of the morning, hours before their internship ceremony started. A sunny salmon sky stretched over his front porch, birds sang their sweet songs, and Cecil waited for the screams from across the street to stop. An altogether pleasant morning.

They never stopped, the screams, but those bloodcurdling cries somehow attracted Steve Carlsberg, who delivered the morning paper then.

Cecil blinked. The blood rose to his cheeks, crimson marks leftover from the rest of the memories that trickled into his mind. He gulped, glancing back to his paper again, translated Sumerian helping him decode the rest of the paper.

"The radio host vanished..." Cecil whispered, decoding as he ran his eyes over the symbols. His eyes widened. "Night Vale's voice vanished!" The blood drained from his cheeks, concentrated in his tight grip on the paper. "But how? We just saw—!"

"It's been almost an hour since," Steve said. "But, assuming our higher-up has truly vanished into thin air, then who's supposed to lead the news segments?"

"We have to have someone report," Cecil said, panic flipping his stomach. "It's our duty as the radio station. To spread the truth out. To report." He glanced over the letter's lower half, shoulders slumping when he read over the rest of the words. "Oh."

"Why so glum, sugar plum?" Steve asked, unable to hide his smirk from the effortless delivery of his rhyme.

"It says in Station Management's contract what to do," Cecil said, staring at his letter. "If the host of NVCR is permanently vacationing, moving, freezing into a chunk of ice, maimed, drowned, vanishes by mysterious circumstances, blinks out of existence, or anything for that matter, disappearance-wise..." Cecil frowned. "Well, who wrote this atrocious contract? The grammatical structure of it is entirely wrong.

"What does it say, Cecil."

"Station Management may and will incite the Intern Trials."

"Freezes into a chunk of ice," Steve grumbled.

"These Intern Trials," Cecil continued, "are to start as soon as the NVCR host is unable to continue the next community news section. The pool of interns selected for the trials will be those whose shifts were closest to the time of inconvenience."

"That's suspicious," Steve said. "We're the only interns around in the first place."

"Maybe there used to be multiple intern shifts. I am positive we have more interns that share this studio with us!"

"They're dead, numbskull."

"Oh." Cecil stiffened. "My skull is very much not numb, despite the fact that it cannot sense pain."

Steve rolled his eyes. "Okay, so we're doing these intern trials. What are they for?"

"It says nothing else. Oh, there's a postscript." Cecil ran his fingers over the Braille etched into the bottom. "It says... Meet at the... Mine shaft?"

"The recently closed one?" Steve asked. "On the outskirts of town?"

"The very one, I would guess!"

"But it's already tomorrow! The next news slot is soon."

Cecil smiled. "Stevie, didn't you hear the radio earlier last evening? City Council announced tomorrow will not exist."

"What?"

"Tomorrow doesn't exist," Cecil said. He folded the letter and slipped it into the envelope. "Well, let's get going. We've no time to waste."

"But tomorrow doesn't exist."

"We move even as we skip," Cecil said. "Why should time be any different?"


They traveled down the street, holding their envelopes at their sides. The diner beside the radio station glowed even at this late hour, unsurprising as it was an All Night diner. Its neon sign pulsated in hues of mint green, and Cecil swore he could smell the faint aroma of their classic strawberry pie.

On Sundays they had spider venom milkshakes. Shame City Council canceled tomorrow.

They passed the arcade and bowling alley, Steve flipping his envelope over in his hands.

"It's freaking impossible for tomorrow to not exist," Steve said finally. "We left after midnight, for crying out loud."

"We never passed through tomorrow," Cecil said. "I would guess that we are in a limbo period. At this point in nonexistent time? City Council must be preparing the time shift."

"But time is still passing."

Cecil gestured to his watch, the clock hands frozen in place. He asked Steve to pull out his pager, then showed him the pager's time slot, clock also frozen. Pointing to the enormous clock attached to the side of City Hall, Cecil revealed the present constant in Night Vale—frozen time.

"It's not a big deal, really," Cecil said as Steve let out a dejected sigh. Cecil pulled out the pocket watch his grandfather gave him before the desert mirages consumed him (a camping trip gone horribly wrong, as Cecil didn't know how to get back home at that age). The pocket watch did not tick, either, and Cecil plopped it back into his pocket.

Passing through the street with City Hall, Cecil reminded Steve to stay away from the left side.

Reminders about past news or not, it did not prevent Cecil from his fleeting tangents.

"Are we even allowed to approach the mine shaft?" Cecil asked. "It's closed, isn't it? The Sheriff's Secret Police haven't confirmed whether we're allowed to near the place or not."

"We'll be fine. Station Management wouldn't send us into a death trap."

"This wouldn't be the first time," Cecil said as they crossed an intersection. "I'm fine with that. The life of a reporter is as dangerous as it is exciting. It's the trespassing I'm fretting over."

"You're an airhead, Cecil. What are you possibly worrying about?" Steve hooked elbows with Cecil.

Cecil clung to Steve, not noticing tentacle tendrils wrapping around Steve's upper arm. It's recently closed and all," Cecil began. "Wouldn't it be trespassing? And City Council would definitely not approve and I need to respect their decisions because Night Vale is a united community and its support needs to be doubly so—!"

Steve patted Cecil's fingers. "You're being a nincompoop," he said quietly. His lips curled into a gentle smile as he added, "But if worst comes to worst, Cecil, I'll protect my mini Cthulhu."

Cecil smiled at him before he realized what the nickname referred to. He willed his tentacles back under, and they slid back under his skin.

They walked arm in arm down the block and passed a handful of other streets before they arrived at the National Guard station. Cecil waved to those in uniform, letter still in hand, and the guards passed them through the gates with a couple of quick waves.

"We were expected," Steve said. "See, Cecil? You have nothing to worry about. We have permission to be here."

Cecil gulped. They continued down the long expanse of road after the National Guard station. While Cecil knew City Council continued to fund the National Guard for their position, the Council did not think the long expanse of road after that needed to be lit up at night, as the only thing past the station was the now-closed mine shaft.

Their pace kicked at the larger stones waiting on the paved road. The wind whispered, patting Cecil's cheeks as it ran its breeze through his puffy blond locks. He caught wisps of the wind's incessant whispers, playful whispers about trespassing into the mine shaft and teasing nips at Cecil's complete adoration for Steve Carlsberg and would they just stop slipping into his thoughts already.

He stole a glance to his left, where Steve walked on with that stride of his. Straight military posture (did Steve have a military family?), eyes staring straight ahead (did the wind only bother Cecil and not Steve?), the confident gait of someone who deserved to be showered with luck.

And maybe, perhaps, showered with the head position at NVCR. But that was Cecil's dream, too, and he didn't want to admit that he did not want to share that role.

That secret, held under his tongue and clogging his throat with unease, controlled Cecil, led him to bouts of nervousness against this entire ordeal. But if Station Management wanted to grant them the Intern Trials, he had no choice but to follow.

"We're here," Steve said as they stepped off the paved road and walked over gravel and the dust of centuries past.

Cecil craned his neck up to look at the night sky. It glittered with its sparkling kisses amidst a sea of black. "The sky's beautiful at this time. With the creeping hint of light."

Steve shrugged, looking up. "Maybe after all this, we can go out in the desert. You and I. Alone." He grinned. "Staring at the night sky together."

"That'd be nice," Cecil said absently, eyes trained on the sky.

Steve Carlsberg understood little of the Night Vale Community Radio Station. Cecil's own history there latched around his family's history, and he knew the tales behind NVCR well.

And double internships? They never lasted well, and Cecil knew that. He listened to the family stories, the tales woven with grief, lost, and distrust. Sparkling purple eyes staring into the wrinkles of his family, lines etched in their faces that told stories of their own about NVCR.

That didn't mean he had to believe them.