The school radio station smelled of dust, popcorn and ambition. When you first open the door to our cable kingdom, you hear such a quiet, perpetual 'bzz', as if the whole world just felt like taking a nap and was just pretending to do something. Hanging on the wall was a disco poster from 2014 (no one had the heart to take it down), and underneath it the notation: "Don't touch the knobs!". Maks claimed it was for the mixer. I thought it was a school-wide philosophy. I'm Wika, eighth grade, height: enough to reach the topmost shelf if I stand on a stool and offer him room. I like to speak into a microphone, because then I can have the impression that my chaotic head has a channel and a frequency after all. Maks loves anything that has a button, a socket or a flashing diode. When he was born in March, I'm pretty sure the nurse, instead of covering him with a blanket, first checked to see where the slight buzzing was coming from. "Test, test, one, two, three, one... half," I said into a microphone that remembered better times. A gentle echo went through the speakers, because the acoustics of our cottage consisted of everything bouncing off everything, like a ball in the gymnasium, only without the noise of the gymnasts. "Don't say half," hissed Maks, "Half means something is about to fall." "Maybe humour," - I muttered, then pressed one of the buttons, half of which I was afraid to touch and the other half of which didn't work anyway. It was Monday, 9:10 a.m. In thirty minutes we were due to release the morning announcements: "Class 7B is dismissing geography due to the fact that the geography lady finally won at teacher bingo", "There's a promotion for XXL apples in the shop today" and so on. Mr Rawicz, the headmaster - a man with a whistle instead of a heart - only agreed to our jokes if they feigned seriousness. This is an art greater than drill. When Maks fired up the old transmitter and arranged the cables so that they looked like the hair of a man with a plan, there was noise in the speakers. A normal hum. Then a strange squeal, as if someone had moved a chair across the floor with all their might. And then... my voice. "Good morning, this is Radio Rapture, and we welcome you at 9:34 a.m., when the chops in the canteen are reaching the temperature of lava and Mr Rawicz thinks no one can see his new penguin tie," said I, only I didn't say anything, because I was standing next to Maks with my face open and the very wise face I usually make when dealing with equations with two unknowns. Maks looked at me, then at his watch, then at me again. "9:34?" - he growled quietly. - "Wika, it's 9:12." "Don't joke, because in a moment I'll start getting scared of the equipment, and then I'll stop touching it, and then everything will fall down for real," I tried to be composed. In radio broadcasting, composure is the second most important ingredient after duct tape. But the speaker wasn't about to stop. My voice - only drier, more confident, with that annoying habit of mine of slurring my words with irony - flew on: 'Attention, trivia of the day: at 9:32 the cocoa machine at the buffet will decide to make a geyser. Please do not stand too close in your white shirts." "Well, it's either a conspiracy by now, or Nela from the film club has hidden the camera and is making a prank," I said, even though Nela had PE at this hour and was struggling to cosset the ball like a medieval knight with a bucket. Maks wordlessly ran out of the cubicle. I ran after him, because being sensible has never been my strong point. We walked into the buffet just in time for 9:31 a.m. The cocoa machine looked innocuous, sleek steel, as if it could run its own cooking show. There were several people standing around with mugs. I pushed myself against the wall and Maks whispered: "If this works, no more doubts." At 9:32 the cocoa maker decided to make a geyser. It was beautiful and traumatic at the same time: the chocolate fountain hit the ceiling and rained down. Two seventh-graders screamed. Someone started clapping, because in our school we sometimes applaud anything if it looks impressive. I picked up the soaked piece of paper with the prices on it and looked at Maks. He was looking at me like a man who had just won a bet with himself, but doesn't know whether to be happy. "We're going back," - he said. - "Before we hear that at 9:40 Mr Rawicz is learning to dance with a mop." On the radio station, the loudspeakers were living their own lives again. My "other" voice said: "Greetings to Kasia from 6A, who has just sneezed thirty-seven times in a row. Kasia, cheers." Somewhere in the distance someone started counting sneezes. At the thirty-eighth one, a collective wail rang out. Someone shouted: "We can do it tomorrow!" We sat down. Next to me lay our graphite binder marked "Scripts and ideas, don't throw away, even if they smell". Its smell could indeed be evidence of time. From the speakers flowed: "And an announcement to yourselves: Wika and Maksie, if you hear this at 9:20 a.m., do not open Locker Number 9 at 10:12 a.m. I repeat: do not open it." We froze. Locker number 9 stood two steps away from us. Grey, metal, slightly dented like a banana in a backpack after a break. There was a crooked '9' taped on it, because nobody usually liked this locker. The problem was that it wasn't the usual student locker from the corridor. It was our radio cabinet. According to the inventory - cables, adapters, spare microphones and one mysterious cardboard box described by Mrs Elwira from the staff as "CAUTION. taffy DO NOT TOUCH". Ms Elwira wrote 'taffy' on anything that was flat and would bring trouble. She once signed a mixer in this way. "It's not funny" - I said, which meant in my language: I'm excited and pretend it's not. - "Who records like that? How? When?" Maks scratched the back of his neck, which, next to him, looked like resets in his brain. "If it's us, just offset... the radio doesn't work like that. But our radio works as it pleases, so all in all... why not." It blared from the speakers again: "Seriously, Wika. Don't open it. It's not a 'attention, surprise, cake' joke. It's important. And, Maks, if you can hear me, don't touch those red knobs at the bottom. They're not decorative." Simultaneously, at the same time, Maks reflexively put his fingers on the red knobs. He froze. He raised his hands in the air as if under arrest and whispered: "I'm not touching. Look. I am the sculpture 'I don't touch'." I moved closer to the cabinet. I heard a very quiet buzzing that I hadn't heard before. The kind of buzzing that felt like a fly living inside, something that had dreamed of being a fridge since I was a child. I put my hand on the metal. It was cool. The watch on the wall had hands with plastic egos: 9:41. "We can... not open it," - Maks said unconvinced. - "Usually when something tells us 'don't do' we do it anyway, but how about we finally prove we're mature?" "That sounds like a plan from someone who's never been in our class," I countered. - "Besides, if it's us talking to us, it means that doing the opposite can also mess things up. Or fix it. Ugh." We sat next to each other like July next to August - seemingly close, and yet everything changes. I did something I shouldn't have done: put my ear to the cupboard. Inside, something tapped softly. Like a fingernail against glass. Like a pen against a tabletop. Like a message that wants to go out but doesn't know the Wi-Fi password. The speaker crackled and my "tomorrow" voice came on again: "Oh, one more thing: if anyone asks about yesterday's maths assignment, tell them the solution isn't 42, although they'd love to. And... seriously, don't open it." For a split second I heard something like a whisper in the background, different from mine. Male? Older? Or was it just the wind in the wires. Nela's head slid into the radio. Her hair was tied up in a chaotic ponytail, as if gravity had lost the battle and she wanted an attempt at a rematch. "Did you hear that? You could hear to the end of the corridor that we had some kind of broadcast from outside the set. And Mr Rawicz asked if it was legal," she said. - "I told him that anything that sounds professional is legal." "And it sounds?" - I asked. "Depends, if it sounds professional to panic whisper 'don't open' - then yes, very much so." - she replied with a flash of satisfaction and disappeared, shouting over her shoulder: "And if it's a prank, remember that I'm not fooled, unless it's about dumplings." We were left with Maks and Closet number 9. On the clock, 10:05 a.m. With poor grace, I opened my chewing gum and popped it in my mouth, because chewing is a thinking mode in me. The wikopedia of the brain. Maks meanwhile took a mini torch out of his pocket, which he always carried, because a day without a torch is a day lost. A light reflex travelled along the wall and stopped at a '9' sticker. The numeral did not look threatening. A digit never looks threatening until it's in a diary. "If we don't open it, we'll be thinking about it all day," I said. "If we open it, we can... you know." - he replied and circled his hand with a gesture that in Max's language meant: "we could be in trouble, fireworks, or both at the same time". "We've got five minutes" - I stated, tapping my finger on the tabletop, because taps are easier to count than minutes. Then the speaker beeped, as if someone had pulled it by the ear. There was a metallic crackle and then a new voice - still mine, but seemingly breathing faster: "Attention, update! Wika, Maks - can you hear? You've had your window changed. Don't wait until 10:12 - open now. Immediately." We looked at each other. We looked at the cabinet. We looked at the red dials that suddenly started flashing, though they never did. My heart pounded in my ears, like a drum at roll call. Someone in the corridor slammed the door, and the echo got under our skin. "After all, it said not to open it a moment ago". - I said in a half-hearted voice, as if the walls had an opinion. "And now it says to open. Great. Panic demo version, extended edition," Maks replied, but his fingers were already on the key. The key was tiny, like a joke no one wanted to tell until the end. I put my hand to the handle. The metal was warmer. Inside again, something clattered - more clearly, twice, then once, like a prearranged rhythm. A hum flew from the speakers, and then this one sentence, with such seriousness that even the 2014 poster stopped pretending not to listen: "You have twenty seconds. Decide." Click. The key vibrated. The number 9 cupboard on the inside responded with a protracted, disturbingly cheerful creak.