Bronx owns a worn guitar, has an audience, and sometimes confuses those two facts with ownership of the relay. The neighbors paid for much of the equipment. Tamsin keeps reminding him, often while repairing it.
He can make a room listen. A song, a warning, a particularly good account of somebody else's trouble: he knows where the breath should fall. That becomes a problem when a necessary detail spoils the rhythm. A broadcast can be entirely true and still send a family to the wrong queue.
He and Tamsin built something together that must now work even when they are furious with each other. Between missing-person notices and battery warnings, he is still finding room for music. Sometimes the right contribution is holding the lamp.