Do you have one of those things that is long and you make noise by pressing the holes like this–?
Then as if in a movie, or a nightmare, my words slowed to half-speed drawl, and before my brain could stop my mouth from continuing: You mean a recorder?
YES A RECORDER! WHERE IS IT?
Did I say recorder? I meant a reporter! I have a reporter.
Mommy, where’s the recorder?!
I meant I have to re-order! I meant I need a porter!
WHERE IS IT?
I have a court order.
I’m going to look for it.
I call after her, I think I have some mortar! I’m getting shorter!
I know it’s here. JUST SHOW ME.
And here I am, searching for it myself, this instrument of torture, like a lamb to the…well, you know.