The hammer rang once. A spark jumped off the anvil and did not go out. It waited. They followed.

It rolled across the Green to the mending shed and bumped the bell. One ring.

The old vice on the bench had a new handle, and a tiny hammer was scratched on the handle.

On the bench sat an old wooden radio with a round dial. It ran on batteries. A note was taped to the top.

Plays everything at once. I only want the cricket, on 909. Mr Okafor.

"I could take it apart," said Beto.

He opened the battery door and put in four new batteries. He wiped the dust off the dial.

"I think—" said Lan.

"Hang on," said Beto. "I think it's the batteries."

"I was going to say—"

"Wait," said Beto. They were both talking at once.

Beto switched the radio on.

Music came out. So did a man reading the news. Both at the same time, on top of each other.

Beto turned the knob. The needle moved across the dial. The sound did not change at all.

"Then I'll turn it up," said Beto. "The right one will win."

He turned the volume all the way. The music got louder. The news got louder too. Lan put her hands over her ears.

A small gold-and-cream bird was perched on the shelf, holding a tuning fork. Her name was Ring.

"Louder is not choosier," said Ring. "Turn it down. Then listen."

Ring flew down beside a glass of water on the bench. She tapped her fork once and held it near the rim.

For a moment, nothing. Then the glass began to hum, all by itself, the same note as the fork.

"Everything has a note it wants to ring," said Ring. "When a sound matches it, it rings along."

"What has that got to do with the radio?" asked Beto.

"Every station sends its own note," said Ring. "Inside the radio is a tuner. It rings at one note and lets the others go past. The knob changes the note it rings at."

Lan thought about it. "But the knob changes nothing."

"Then the knob is not reaching the tuner," said Ring. "Tap it once and listen."

Beto took the back off the radio. Inside was a little wheel with a groove. Beside it hung a loose thin string.

"The dial cord," said Ring. "It has slipped off its wheel. The tuner is stuck between two stations. So it rings at both."

"Can I do it?" said Lan.

Beto opened his mouth to say "in a minute". He closed it again. He picked up the torch and shone it inside the radio. He waited.

Lan looped the string round the little wheel, into the groove, and round the next one. She pulled it snug.

She turned the knob. Inside, the wheel turned. The music went one way and the news went the other.

A quick shrew had come in with a small screen in her hand. Her foot was tapping. Her name was Pulse.

"Where do you want to stop?" asked Pulse.

"The cricket," said Lan. "Nine hundred and nine."

"That number is the frequency," said Pulse. She held up her screen. A green line went up and down. "It means nine hundred and nine thousand waves arrive every second. Each wave is about three hundred and thirty metres long. Higher number, shorter wave."

Lan turned the knob very slowly. Nine hundred. Nine hundred and five.

The music faded. The news faded.

At nine hundred and nine, one voice came through, clear and calm. "And he's out!"

Beto laughed. Then he stopped himself. "Your turn," he said. "What were you going to say before?"

"That it wasn't the batteries," said Lan.

They put the old dial cord on the shelf of fixed things.

Back on the Green

The spark dimmed to a warm dot and settled back on the anvil. The Green was just the Green again.

At dinner, Beto's two cousins both started telling him about their day at the same time.

"One at a time," said Beto. "I can't tune in to both."