"If anyone can hear this, this is Bob Anderstein," the words echoed through a static haze once the switch on the radio tower was flipped. "My family and I have taken refuge in a drainage chamber…"

"Isaac, no," Charon said as he saw the look in her eye. "We already have a job."

"My boy is very sick, needs medical assistance…"

"Oh, come on!" Isaac said. She started circling the radio tower, listening for a stronger signal. Stepping east made the static worse, a step west and the words were clearer.

"We're waiting for your response. 3950 kilohertz."

It's not coming from the tower itself," she said, "They have to be close."

Isaac left the fenced area of the tower. The voice was crisper as it repeated the message.

"It's going to take at least a day before we get to Megaton," Charon reminded her.

"Then they are going to wait a day anyway," Isaac answered, "We have food and plenty of supplies. An hour or two delay isn't going to hurt anybody."

Charon stayed silent, and followed her obediently. Isaac's path weaved between rocks and bushes trying to follow the signal.

"My family has taken refuge in a drainage chamber -phzzz!- from a radio relay -phzzl!-outside of D.C. -pzzz!- is sick, needs medical assistance -phz!" Charon was gritting his jaw as they approached a manhole cover.

"This is Bob Anderstein," repeated the voice with perfect clarity.

"So this would be above it," Isaac said, she knelt down to try and lift it. 200 years, after all that radiation and the rust, it just wouldn't budge.

"3950 kilohertz…"

"There should be a door," Charon said. Isaac eyed him curiously. "There should be a door that a maintenance crew would've used."

"Ah," Isaac said, standing up without a second thought and moving on to find this door. Charon watched on. His face was stoic but he was still rather bewildered at how he was there. He doesn't know how a smooth-faced 19 year old fresh out of the vault had been able to accrued enough money and influence to buy his contract, but she did.

Her optimism and naivety nauseated him but he held his tongue. He had worse bosses over the years. They had picked up half-a-dozen jobs at this point from people just asking for help. This girl wasn't just unable to say no, she actively looked for this type of work. And this well—

"Please help if you can."

"I think this is it!" Isaac shouted out from the bottom of the hill. Charon approached silently. Sure enough, there was a door. They pushed the door open and stepped inside. A short hallway with two doors across from each other.

"...this is Bob…"

Isaac reached for the door on the right.

"Isaac, I don't—"

The door was opened. There were two adult skeletons on the floor surrounded by centuries-old supplies. Old-World money. Cigar boxes. Empty cans. Charon watched Isaac. Her shoulders were rigged and her jaw tight. "They were —?"

"Survivors of the bombs."

"My boy is very sick, needs…"

"Maybe the boy is still—"

"It's been 200 years, Isaac." He didn't think it would hurt to watch the change in her — the loss of enthusiasm, a little of that Old World innocence — but it did.

"You've seen this before," he told her, "You've even seen a lot worse."

"I know, it's just—"

"..Please, help…"

She didn't cry, but her voice broke: "I don't know. I thought I could help."

"You help enough."

Isaac softened, but she didn't look at him. There were times she couldn't look him in the eye. "Thanks. That means a lot, Charon."

They turned off the light and closed the door. They checked the door on the left. Inside, on a little table laid the radio. The source of the relay signal. Bob Anderstein's ghost calling from the void.

Isaac didn't say anything. Charon knew the order.

"We're waiting for your response."

He turned off the radio. Isaac prayed something under her breath. Wrestling it to rest. Asking it to forgive her.