Misha gazed through the frosty window, watching snow drift gently onto the cars parked along his new Chicago street. It was early December 1989, and the cold pressed itself against the glass, a stark contrast to the warm radiators that hummed softly in their small apartment. A smile crept onto his face as he glanced toward the living room table, where a shiny new JVC single-deck cassette player and radio sat proudly, its polished edges gleaming beneath the pale winter sunlight.
"Happy early New Year, family," his father had announced just few days ago, setting the sleek black plastic machine, with clearly marked buttons, an analog tuner display, and a sturdy built-in handle carefully onto the table. His parents had stretched every dollar since arriving in America, but this splurge felt monumental. Misha loved music deeply—rhythms and melodies had always offered him a certain freedom his wheelchair could not. Before the JVC, he'd mostly relied on either an Emerson or a Sony Walkman, gifts from his uncles.
His favorite radio station, B96, was pumping energetic beats, filling the apartment with lively hip-hop and pop tracks. Misha hummed excitedly, eyes brightening whenever his favorite songs came on. Everything was still new here: the language, the city, the culture. But the music—music felt instantly familiar, comforting and exciting all at once.
Yesterday had been magical. The whole family bundled into their newly purchased 1982 Buick station wagon, its heater blasting warmth even though the car lacked air conditioning. They'd driven to Lincoln Park Zoo, Misha watching eagerly from the back seat as Chicago's holiday splendor unfolded before his eyes. The streets sparkled with colorful lights and decorations; even the skyscrapers seemed dressed for celebration.
At the zoo, he marveled at playful seals and lumbering bears, all while bundled beneath thick blankets in his wheelchair, pushed patiently by his father. But nothing compared to Lincoln Park Conservatory, a place bursting with warmth, color, and life in defiance of winter’s grip. He inhaled deeply, capturing the fragrance of exotic flowers and plants, eyes wide with delight. America was astonishing; Chicago, he decided firmly, was amazing.
But today, his parents had gone to Aldi to shop, taking his little brother along. Alone in the apartment, Misha sat eagerly in front of the radio, soaking in B96's latest pop hits. He was quietly mouthing the lyrics when suddenly, inexplicably, the DJ's smooth voice changed.
"Yo, Misha, what's up, man? Diggin' these jams or what?" the DJ asked casually.
Startled, Misha's heart jolted. He stared at the radio suspiciously. Was this a joke? Maybe his parents were teasing him somehow.
"Uh... Mom? Dad?" he called out tentatively, eyes flicking nervously toward the apartment door. Silence answered him.
"Nope," chuckled the DJ warmly. "They're still at Aldi. Just you and me, buddy. Relax—I'm not Baba Yaga coming to get ya."
Misha almost knocked the radio off the table, hands trembling with both fear and fascination. Was he hallucinating? Maybe this was culture shock, overwhelming his imagination.
"W-who are you, really?" Misha stammered.
"Just a friend," the DJ replied reassuringly. "Thought I'd drop by to give you a heads-up about your future. You’re gonna do some pretty cool things. You'll use a voice-activated computer to write incredible poems and lyrics, and they'll become a published book. Here, take a listen…"
The radio crackled briefly before playing a variety of songs from different genres, each showcasing lyrics the DJ claimed were crafted by Misha. Following the lyrical songs were separate instrumental tracks—complex and layered pieces, all astonishingly produced using only voice-activated technology. Misha listened in awe, heart pounding with excitement.
"That's really me?" Misha whispered, amazed.
"Sure is," the DJ said warmly. "Your book—the one with these lyrics—is even gonna inspire one of the biggest movies ever made. Plus, using only your voice, you'll create artwork that major companies around the globe will use."
Misha's excitement bubbled over. "So many people will hear my songs? I'll be a famous music artist?"
"Well…" the DJ responded hesitantly, voice trailing off slightly.
Misha frowned, suddenly uneasy. "What about my book and the movie?" he asked nervously.
"Umm…" the DJ hesitated again, clearly uncomfortable.
"Answer me," Misha insisted urgently, leaning closer to the radio.
The radio fell silent.
"Answer me!" Misha exclaimed, desperation edging into his voice.
At that very moment, keys rattled outside the apartment door, breaking the tense silence. The door swung open, and the radio smoothly transitioned into the end of a lively song, followed quickly by a traffic report. Misha stared, heart racing, as his parents stepped inside, arms loaded with Aldi bags.
Seeing his astonished expression, his mother laughed gently. "What's wrong, Misha? You look shocked."
He swallowed quickly, then smiled shakily. "I, uh, was just really into that song."
She smiled warmly, placing groceries on the kitchen counter. "Okay," she teased softly, "just don’t go crazy here in America."
They all laughed, and Misha let out a quiet breath, glancing once more at the JVC radio. Whatever had just happened felt profoundly real. Beneath his confusion, excitement, and unanswered questions, a tiny spark ignited—hope, bright and clear, lighting his path forward in this beautiful new city.