Mira pressed the last key. The eleven notes shot out into the dark like a signal, racing back through three winters to a cold girl on the steps who needed a song to hold onto. The machine went quiet. Mira finally knew where the tune came from. She had written it for herself all along, and now the loop was whole.

Mira pulled her hand back. 'If I press it, does any of this ever stop?' she asked. The face on the screen went still, unable to answer. So Mira switched the machine off instead. The eleven notes faded from her memory like an old dream. She walked out of the van a normal woman, humming nothing in particular, and that felt just fine.