If you wished upon a star you would vaporize instantly, due to the intense heat on its surface. Welcome to Night Vale

Carlos and his sprawling team of scientists – split between the University of What It Is, Night Vale campus, and his lab in the strip mall next to Big Rico’s Pizza and the Pinkberry – have been working hard on studying the desert otherworld. Carlos has never had these kinds of resources at his disposal, and so he has been getting a lot done. The team’s current concentration is on creating a stable observation portal to that world.

“The issue,” Carlos explained to me over dinner, as we attempted to get our son Esteban to just try the chicken, “is that the difference between the speed of our time and the otherworld’s time creates a kind of temporal turbulence. It gets really bumpy, in chronology terms, when the worlds connect. I suspect that’s why it was so difficult for anyone who went there to return. Please, you love chicken, we know you love chicken, can you just have some of the chicken?” the important scientist concluded.

While the new resources have been helpful to Carlos, obviously, there is also a lot of responsibility to being the dean of a large research facility. He has been having to organize the HR department, figure out payment processing for paychecks, start to look into how tenure could work, and decide when and how the university might start accepting students. It’s a lot to think about, even for someone who thinks a lot.

I worry that Carlos’s beautiful hair might start to go gray! Haha! But of course, beauty is fleeting and our looks will dissolve in time like clay into a river, and the foundation of love must be built on deeper, stronger stuff. On the other hand, I sure do love that hair.

Let’s get to our top story. My top story, anyway.

This morning we found a boy. The boy was playing in Grove Park. No one knew the boy. He was bright eyed with tousled hair and a high-spirited voice. He ran to and fro, the boy, through the park, pretending to be an airplane, and then a motorboat, and then a hawk chasing a mouse. We asked the boy his name and he didn’t know, but he also didn’t care. Identity was not of interest to him, since he was so busy being every possible thing except himself.

The boy shouted with joy and laughter, a quite high-spirited boy. Soon there was a concerned crowd, because you can’t have a boy with no parents. It’s not right, a boy with no parents. There were murmurings of “what shall be done” and “who will help him”. And so I stepped forward, since communication is what I am, after all, best at.

“Say, boy, are you alone here?” I asked.

“Well, I guess so,” said the boy. “I don’t remember a moment before this moment. As far as I know this is the first conversation I’ve ever had. It seems to be going well. Is it going well?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “Would you like us to help you?”

“I’ve never had anyone help me,” said the boy, “so I don’t know if I would like it or not. But I’m always happy to give it a shot.” Then he neighed like a horse and did a gallop around the field on his imaginary steed.

What a curious boy. More on this soon.

And now for a word from our sponsors. Today’s sponsor is spoons. Can’t get soup without ‘em. What are you going to do? Drink soup? Just pick the bowl up and drink it? Now that I’m saying it out loud, that actually would work fine. I think there’s a number of cultures where that’s how they do soup. Still, how are you going to eat yogurt without a spoon? Ever thought of that? What are you going to do, put it in some kind of pouch that you can carry around and then….no, they’ve done that too? Really?

Ok fine. So there are fewer exclusive-use cases than we thought. But still, spoons are useful. Try spoons once, and buddy, I think you’re going to be back to try more. Our great culture rests on the back of the humble spoon, and don’t you ever forget it.

Spoons: Like a fork, but for wet.

This message has been brought to you by Kroger.

And now for traffic.

The roads are looking good. Good roads. Good infrastructure. Good civilization. Wow, nice organization of a species you got there, would be a shame if anything happened to it.

Beautiful signs. The ones that say exit and yield and such. A lot of consideration put into design. Someone really thought about it. I like the shade of corn yellow used on the lines painted on the road too. And the snowdrop white of the other lines. Someone had a real eye for color. I hope they are proud of themselves, whoever they are.

And even the texture, you have to appreciate the texture of the roads. That blacktop grit, exactly enough grip to get you going. The smell of tar and earth. There is an aesthetic beauty to these manmade scars we lace the earth with.

Yes, those roads are looking good. And that’s probably why they’re so full of cars. It’s slow and go out there folks. And this has been the traffic.

This morning we found a boy.

Carlos and I took him home so he could get some food. We asked him if he was hungry. “Ravenous,” he said. And then he said, “wow I didn’t know I knew that word! What a great word!” We asked him what kind of food he likes and he told us that he doesn’t know, that he has no memory of ever having eaten before. “I was born into the sunlight, already running,” the boy told us, as he wolfed down a turkey sandwich. “My first breath was minutes ago. But this sandwich is perfect, thank you.” We offered him soda, but he was more interested in water. “I’m told it is the essence of life,” he said. “I’d love to try it.” So we offered him a big glass of water, and he gulped it down. “More! More!” In all he drank about three gallons of water. Now, I don’t know how much water you’re supposed to give a boy, but that seemed like a lot of water.

“Incredible,” whispered Carlos, and he texted some of his new science friends.

“You must have been thirsty,” I said.

“Yes,” agreed the boy. “It’s possible I have never drunk anything before.”

The boy seems to be in perfect health. His fingers are long but clean. His teeth look meticulously cared for. All in all, I would say that this boy must have had a guardian, but he has no knowledge who this guardian would be and no memory of having one.

What a curious boy.

And now for a new segment, I’ve dubbed Radio Theater. It’s an original title I just invented. I think it’s pretty catchy.

Now, I may be mostly a news presenter, and a voice of community events and concerns. But I have always been interested in performing theater, but for the radio. Imagine! Saying words into a mic that aren’t true! What a freedom there must be in that.

Unfortunately, I can’t find anyone else that shares my interest, so what I’ve done is I’ve looked up a script from what was, I’m told, the most popular radio drama of the 1920s: The Diamonds of Esmeralda.

The Diamonds of Esmeralda was a weekly melodrama about a young woman named Esmerelda who inherits a great fortune but then an evil businessman named Norton Grenadier steals it all from her. After this, she is forced to flee around the world, having adventures, plotting to recover her fortune, and escaping Norton’s henchmen who pursue her wherever she goes. Oh, it sounds so fun!

But since I don’t have anyone else to act with, I’m going to play all the parts. I think I will be able to so expertly embody the characters that it will be easy and enjoyable to listen along. Here goes.

[read briskly, with no emphasis or real performance]

Well, here I am in Katmandu, where it is said there is a holy man who can help me recover my fortune. Hey lady do you need a guide. Yes, but I have no money to pay. That is fine. Come with me. Say, lady, are you being followed? Quite possibly. Why? Do you see anyone? Yes, there are several men tailing us. Do not worry, lady, I know this city better than anyone. You are safe with me. Quickly run. Oh! Ah! This way! Ah! Oh! Get back here! I’ve got her boss! I’ve lost her boss! You must climb up this wall into this window. I can’t do it. But you must. But I can’t. Don’t worry. I will be with you every step of the way. Ok, but oh no, the men are upon us and I am clinging to your hand as I hang from this high window. Is that it for poor Esmerelda? Tune in next week, and remember to use Dr. Baumgarten’s Hygienic Soap. The only soap that definitely won’t cause your skin to boil.

[end reading]

Wow! That was so fun. I was really in the zone. Maybe I missed my calling. I should have been an actor. Or an heiress on the run. Either sounds exciting.

And now for corrections.

In an earlier broadcast, I knocked over the microphone and howled “There is no way that trees grow from seeds. That’s obvious. Look at the size of trees. And look at the size of seeds. This is ludicrous. You can’t expect me to believe what is obviously false. I am not a patsy. I will not simply roll over and let you speak riddles to me. Believe whatever you want to believe. I am not your Sunday school teacher. But trees do not grow from seeds and that’s the last word on the matter.”

Then I kicked over the expensive studio speakers, threw the rest of my notes in the trash, and stormed out of the station building, not returning for several days.

Well, Carlos took me on a little field trip to a nursery, where I got to see the stages of growth of a tree, and it turns out I was slightly off base on this one. Some of my facts weren’t quite in order, so to speak.

Let me be the first to say: no hard feelings obviously. We have all said things that we regret. We were all a little wrong. I think we just call this one a draw. Some of us did damage to the studio. Some of us didn’t show up to work. Some of us didn’t understand how trees grow. I don’t think it’s productive to get into who did what. Lessons learned, and we’ll move on from here.

This has been corrections.

This morning we found a boy.

Tamika Flynn, of the City Council, has come to us concerned about the boy. “I’m concerned about the boy,” Tamika said, and she furrowed her brow to demonstrate concern. “A lost boy is a serious matter, and for his own sake we must make a plan for how to best help him.”

Carlos and I agreed of course, and we made suggestions.

“We must write a play about the boy,” I cried. “A grand play that will turn the hearts of the community toward his aid.”

“Ok,” said Tamika, “no bad ideas.” But the way she said it almost made it sound like my idea was bad, which it wasn’t. It was artistic and thrilling.

“We could do DNA testing on the boy,” suggested Carlos. “Maybe his parents were on some sort of registry, like those ones where you send in a saliva sample and they send you a report back letting you know what astrological sign you are.”

“Better,” said Tamika, “but you are both thinking of the boy as an event rather than a person. I think our first step should be to take the boy to a child therapist, who might be able to talk to him about where he is from, and how best we can help him.”

“Ok,” I said, “no bad ideas.” I said this in a way that made it sound like her idea was bad, but this was undercut by Carlos enthusiastically agreeing with it.

“Yes,” said Carlos. “I know just the person. There is an expert childhood therapist on my staff!”

And so it was decided. We all decided that this is what would be best for the boy. And the boy said: “sure.”

More boy soon, but first, the weather.

[weather]

This morning we found a boy.

The boy sat with the child therapist, a kind woman with sad eyes. “What do you remember?”

“Nothing,” the boy said.

The therapist nodded, was silent for a long time.

“Well,” the boy said.

The therapist was silent.

“Well,” the boy said, “there is this,” the boy said. “I remember a darkness darker than dark. I remember a warmth that did not comfort. I remember joy that wrenched the soul. I remember three words: To do harm. I remember a sky so full of stars that it looked like a blank sheet of paper. I remember the true name of god. I remember the value of pi to 80 digits. I remember the grit of sand in my mouth. I remember a darkness darker than dark. I remember a melody that I do not care to sing. I remember a prayer although I do not know to what. I remember sadness that warmed the heart. I remember a darkness darker than dark. And I remember my mother. But other than that,” the boy said, “I remember nothing.”

The therapist nodded again, took a sip of water with careful slowness. “Tell me about your mother.”

“No,” the boy said, in a new voice, full of broken glass and thunder clouds. “I will not talk about her.” His voice returned to normal. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help, ma’am.”

After the session, the therapist sat down with me and Carlos and Tamika. “He is holding a lot of pain,” the therapist said. “but he is too young to know how to put it down, or even where something like that could be unburdened. Only time and life can do that for him. He needs a safe place to stay, while he figures that out.”

Carlos and I of course volunteered our house, we are always happy to help, but Tamika said: “No, he can come to stay with me. I think we are kindred souls. Maybe I can show him other ways to cope with the world. Maybe he can show me that too. Maybe we can help each other, in some small way.”

The boy agreed that living with Tamika for a little while, just until we could learn where he belonged, sounded like a good idea. And the two walked off, arm in arm, into a future that might be a little better than the past. Who knows. Good could happen?

Stay tuned next for a dramatic reenactment of your grisly death.

Good night, Night Vale. Good night.