CHAPTER 6:Ellie at the WKLN radio station in Cloverfield.

The WKLN studio smelled faintly of dust and nostalgia, the kind of scent that clung to old records and forgotten dreams. Ellie Harper sat in the booth, her headphones snug against her ears, the glow of the "ON AIR" sign casting a soft red hue across her notepad. It was 2 a.m., the heart of her midnight shift, and Cloverfield's airwaves were hers to fill. But tonight, her mind wasn't on the music or the callers—it was on Jack.Three nights had passed since his last call, since his cryptic words about running from something he couldn't outrun. Three nights since she'd stood in the empty street, searching for the glint of his motorcycle. He hadn't called again, hadn't shown up. Yet Ellie felt his presence, like a song stuck in her head, its melody just out of reach.She leaned into the mic, her voice warm against the late-night chill. "Good evening, Cloverfield—or good morning, depending on your perspective. This is Ellie Harper, your guide through the wee hours on WKLN. Let's keep the vibes smooth with some Joni Mitchell—here's A Case of You for all you restless souls out there." She hit play, the song's bittersweet chords spilling into the booth.As Joni's voice filled the air, Ellie's gaze drifted to the station's cluttered shelves. They were a time capsule of WKLN's history—stacks of vinyl, yellowed playlists, and a shoebox labeled "Lost & Found." Curiosity tugged at her. She'd been meaning to poke through the station's relics, maybe find inspiration for her show. With the song playing, she slid her chair over and pulled the box down, its contents rattling softly.Inside were odds and ends: a keychain shaped like a guitar, a faded concert ticket, a cracked cassette labeled "Mix '98." And then, tucked beneath a crumpled pack of gum, a Polaroid. Ellie's breath caught as she lifted it to the light. The photo showed a younger man—dark hair, stubble, a familiar half-smile—leaning against a motorcycle, his arm around a woman with wild curls and a radiant grin. The ocean stretched behind them, endless and blue. Scrawled on the bottom in faded ink: Jack & Lena, Cannon Beach, '21.Ellie's heart stuttered. Jack. It had to be him. The man in the photo had the same sharp jaw, the same guarded spark in his eyes she'd seen outside the station. But who was Lena? And why was this photo buried in a box at WKLN?The song was winding down. Ellie shoved the Polaroid into her pocket and slid back to the mic, her voice only slightly shaky. "That was Joni Mitchell, folks. Got a story or a song request? Lines are open—give me a call." She rattled off the number, her fingers brushing the photo through her jeans. She needed answers, but Jack wasn't the type to hand them over easily.The phone stayed silent. Ellie queued another song, her thoughts racing. Cannon Beach was a few states away, a small coastal town she'd visited once as a kid. If Jack had been there in 2021, what had brought him to Cloverfield four years later, hiding behind a single name and a burner phone?On the outskirts of town, Jack crouched beside his motorcycle in a dimly lit garage, the only light coming from a flickering bulb overhead. The bike's carburetor was acting up again, but his hands moved on autopilot, tightening bolts while his mind wandered elsewhere. To Ellie. To the sound of her voice on the radio, pulling at him like a tide he couldn't fight.He shouldn't have called her that first night. Shouldn't have lingered outside the station, letting her see his face. Every moment he stayed in Cloverfield was a risk—not just to him, but to anyone who got too close. Like Lena had.Four years ago, Cannon Beach had been his sanctuary. He and Lena had built a life there, or so he'd thought. She'd been a singer, her voice raw and soulful, gigging at local bars while Jack fixed cars and dreamed of a future. But Lena had a past she hadn't shared—a gambling debt from her days in Portland, owed to a man named Victor Crane. Crane wasn't just a loan shark; he was connected, the kind of guy who could make people disappear. When Lena couldn't pay, Crane's men came for her. Jack had stepped in, fists flying, and one bad night left a thug in the hospital and Jack's life in pieces.Lena had begged him to stay, to fight it out together. But Jack knew better. Crane's network was vast, and his memory was long. Jack had left her a note, half his savings, and a promise to come back when it was safe. He hadn't seen her since. For all he knew, she'd moved on—or worse. The guilt was a stone in his chest, heavier with every mile he put between him and Cannon Beach.Cloverfield was supposed to be a quick stop, a place to earn some cash fixing radios for the station's tech guy before moving on. But then he'd heard Ellie on WKLN, her voice cutting through the static of his life. She was sharp, curious, unafraid to nudge at his edges. Dangerous, in her own way.He wiped his hands on a rag, glancing at the portable radio on the workbench. Ellie's show was still on, her voice weaving through a dedication for a caller named Rita. Jack's fingers twitched toward his phone. He could call, hear her say his name again. But every call was a breadcrumb, a trail that could lead Crane's men to Cloverfield.He'd been careful—new name, no paper trail, a bike that didn't tie back to Jackson Tate. But yesterday, he'd seen a black sedan idling near the town's only gas station, its tinted windows hiding the driver. It could've been nothing. Or it could've been everything.Jack stood, his jaw tight. He hadstubbed out the radio and grabbed his jacket. He couldn't stay in Cloverfield much longer. But the thought of leaving without hearing Ellie's voice one more time felt like a different kind of running.Back at the station, the phone finally lit up. Ellie's pulse jumped as she grabbed it. "WKLN, you're on with Ellie. Who's this?""It's me," Jack said, his voice low and rough, like he was fighting himself to make the call.Her breath caught, the Polaroid burning a hole in her pocket. "Jack. Thought you'd vanished on me.""Nah," he said, a faint smile in his voice. "Just… laying low. Got a request?""Let me guess—another heartbreak anthem?" She kept her tone light, but her mind was on the photo, on Lena's name.He laughed softly. "How 'bout I'm on Fire by Springsteen?"Ellie's cheeks warmed at the choice, her fingers tightening on the receiver. "Feeling intense tonight, huh?""You have no idea," he said, the words heavy with something unspoken.She queued the song, her heart pounding. "Jack, you ever gonna tell me what you're running from? Or do I have to keep guessing?"A long pause. "Some things are better left alone, Ellie.""Maybe," she said, her voice soft but firm. "But I'm pretty good at digging up the truth."The line went quiet, and then he hung up. Ellie stared at the receiver, the Polaroid's weight like a challenge. She didn't know Jack's story, but that photo was a start. And tomorrow, she'd start asking questions—starting with the station's old-timers who might remember a drifter named Jackson Tate.

The WKLN booth was a cocoon of soft light and static hum, but Ellie Harper felt anything but calm. The Polaroid of Jack and Lena, tucked into her jacket pocket, seemed to pulse with secrets, demanding answers she didn't have. It was 1:47 a.m., her third song of the night fading out, and Cloverfield's airwaves waited for her voice. She leaned into the mic, forcing a steadiness she didn't feel."Welcome back, Cloverfield. This is Ellie Harper, your late-night DJ on WKLN, here to keep the lonely hours a little less lonely. That was Fleetwood Mac with Dreams—hope it's got you drifting somewhere sweet. Got a story or a song request? Lines are open." She recited the station's number, her eyes flicking to the phone. No red light. No Jack.Since his call last night, his cryptic Some things are better left alone echoing in her ears, Ellie's curiosity had sharpened into determination. The Polaroid wasn't just a photo—it was a clue to who Jack really was, and why he carried the weight of a man on the run. She'd spent the day asking subtle questions around the station, starting with Marty, the grizzled tech guy who'd been at WKLN since the '80s. He'd squinted at her when she mentioned a drifter who might've passed through a few years back, muttering something about "too many faces" and "not enough coffee." No help there. But Ellie wasn't done digging.She queued Nights in White Satin by The Moody Blues, the song's moody swell giving her a moment to think. The station's archives were her next stop—boxes of old logs, photos, and listener letters stashed in the basement. If Jack, or Jackson Tate, had any connection to WKLN beyond his calls, she'd find it.The phone lit up.Ellie's pulse quickened as she grabbed the receiver. "WKLN, you're on with Ellie. Who's this?""Hey, Radio Girl," Jack's voice rumbled, low and rough, like gravel under tires. "Miss me?"Her lips twitched, a mix of relief and frustration. "You're making a habit of this, Jack. Thought you might've skipped town after last night's disappearing act.""Not yet," he said, a faint edge in his tone. "Got a request—Running on Empty by Jackson Browne."Ellie's fingers froze on her notepad. Another song about running. "You trying to tell me something, or is this just your playlist's vibe?"A pause, long enough to hear the faint hum of wind through the line. "Maybe it's both," he said. "What about you, Ellie? You ever feel like you're one step ahead of something you can't see?"Her throat tightened. She thought of her own escape to Cloverfield—leaving behind a city job, a cheating ex, and a life that felt like a cage. "Yeah," she admitted. "But I'm not big on running forever. You?"He chuckled, but it was hollow. "Some of us don't get a choice."Before she could press, he hung up. Ellie stared at the phone, the Polaroid heavy in her pocket. Jackson Tate, she thought. Who are you running from?Jack leaned against his motorcycle outside a derelict barn on Cloverfield's outskirts, the night air sharp with the scent of pine and damp earth. The radio in his hand crackled faintly, Ellie's voice fading into Jackson Browne's weary anthem. He shouldn't have called. Every word to her was a tether, tying him to a place he couldn't afford to stay. But her voice—curious, unafraid, pulling at him like a song he couldn't shake—kept drawing him back.He'd seen the black sedan again this morning, parked outside the diner where he'd grabbed coffee. Tinted windows, no plates, idling just long enough to make his skin crawl. Victor Crane's men, or someone like them. Four years ago, in Cannon Beach, Jack had thought he could outrun them. He'd been wrong.Lena's face flashed in his mind—her wild curls, her laugh, the way she'd sing off-key to the radio while he cooked. She'd been his anchor, until her debts to Crane unraveled everything. Jack had tried to protect her, taking on her debt, working deals with men who didn't negotiate. The night it went wrong, he'd fought one of Crane's enforcers, a guy named Doyle, leaving him bloodied and barely breathing. Self-defense, the cops said, but Crane didn't care about legalities. He'd put a price on Jack's head, and Jack had run, leaving Lena with enough cash to start over. He'd promised to come back for her when it was safe. But safe never came.Now, in Cloverfield, the past was catching up. The sedan wasn't a coincidence. Someone had tracked him—maybe a tip from a town he'd passed through, maybe a slip-up he didn't know he'd made. Jack's fingers tightened around the radio. Ellie was a complication he hadn't planned for. Her questions were too sharp, her voice too tempting. If Crane's men were here, getting close to her was a mistake that could cost them both.He started the bike, the engine's roar drowning out the radio. He needed to leave Cloverfield. Tonight. But as he rode toward the highway, the thought of Ellie's voice—I'm pretty good at digging up the truth—made him wonder if he was running from more than just his past.Ellie's shift ended at 4 a.m., the station quiet except for the hum of equipment cooling down. She locked the booth and headed to the basement, a damp, cluttered space lit by a single bulb. The archives were a maze of cardboard boxes, some labeled, some spilling over with papers. She started with a box marked "Listener Logs, 2021," the year on the Polaroid.Her fingers sifted through yellowed call sheets, her eyes scanning for anything familiar. Most were mundane—song requests, shout-outs, a few late-night confessions. Then, near the bottom, a log caught her eye. Dated August 2021, it listed a caller: JT, no last name. Requested 'Wicked Game' for Lena. Said he's passing through, working on radios.Ellie's heart raced. JT. Jackson Tate. The same song Jack had requested last night. He'd been here before, or at least called in, four years ago. Why? And why was his photo in the station's lost and found?She was about to dig deeper when a noise—a faint creak—came from the stairwell. Ellie froze, her breath shallow. The station was locked; no one else was here. "Marty?" she called, her voice echoing in the silence.No answer. Another creak, closer now. Ellie shoved the log into her pocket with the Polaroid and grabbed a heavy flashlight from the shelf, her pulse hammering. She edged toward the stairs, the light's beam cutting through the dark.A shadow moved at the top of the steps—a man, broad-shouldered, his face obscured. "Who's there?" Ellie demanded, her voice sharp.The figure didn't answer. Instead, he turned and vanished, footsteps thudding toward the back exit. Ellie ran after him, her flashlight bobbing, but by the time she reached the door, it was swinging shut, the alley outside empty except for the distant growl of a car engine.Her hands shook as she locked the door, the Polaroid and log burning in her pocket. Someone was watching—someone tied to Jack, she was sure of it. And she wasn't about to let him disappear without answers.