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.