I wasn’t sure I was ready to. I’m young, I thought, I should have dreams. I didn’t know what they were supposed to be, though. I struggled at first, then apathy set in. But like a drowning man slipping into the cold wet embrace of death a third and last time, I suddenly began to struggle.

It had to be something within the mechanism, I reasoned. Or guessed. I went to the library, went online. I brought home piles of books and hung out in antique stores. My mother welcomed my obsession at first, but over time she withdrew, puzzled and worried: no matter, I could simply wind up the musical box and she would start to smile and forget all about her inchoate fears, twirling and humming down the hall to the kitchen.

I pulled my red guitar, a brief and expensive obsession of mine when I was 14, out of the closet and bought new strings. I learned to play the box’s song, but the sounds that came out of the little 15-watt amp were discordant and awful no matter how closely I mimicked the tune. What was the tune?