“Your Wi-Fi. I told Lan to give me a Wi-Fi, and her son gave me this. He said the signal should reach everywhere in the house and probably the yard. Now you won’t need to sit that way at the kitchen table.”

Katrina held the cube. It was heavier than she expected. And the surface was cool, smooth—almost like solid glass.

“Where’s the router and the cable input? And … um … where’s the plug?”

Miss Satomi shrugged. “I think you’re just supposed to use it.”

She took the cube from Katrina’s hand and placed it on the cabinet next to a picture of her with Yo-Yo Ma.

“Yo-Yo, meet Wi-Fi. Wi-Fi, meet Yo-Yo.”

“Wait, I don’t understand—”

“You turn it on like this.” Miss Satomi tapped it gently, and one face began to glow a soft blue.

“She said you’re supposed to use Starrgate, with two r’s.”

“Um … sure…”

Katrina didn’t know what was going on. But “Starrgate” appeared on her network menu. She connected immediately. She tilted her head and tried to download a video.

Wait—the download was already complete? She tried another.

And now a full-length movie.

“Is it good?”

“YES! I mean, yes. I mean, thank you!”

After breakfast, Shizuka showed Katrina the laptop that Lan had given her, and Katrina showed her how to search for videos.

“You mean I can just give you a name, and you can find a video?”

“Yes, of course,” Katrina said. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean it to sound like that. It’s just, Miss Satomi, weren’t you living in Tokyo?

“I know … How can I not know about the Internet? Look, I just had this conversation with Lan. So why don’t you show me now?”

“Yes, Miss Satomi.”

For most of the morning, they watched concert footage, TV broadcasts, even newsreels. Some were in color; others were black-and-white. Another musician. Another. Each was someone whom Katrina had never heard of. Each was someone whom Katrina would never, ever forget.

It was late afternoon. Katrina was relaxing in her room, snacking on Emmental and mustard green sandwiches.

Emmental?

How was she even saying this?

Katrina recalled the videos they watched. Those musicians were wearing gowns and tuxedoes, and there were conductors and orchestras. And these were Miss Satomi’s colleagues, as well as her students. They were champions, prizewinners, people who had toured Asia, Europe.

She could understand why those musicians were given training, scholarships, fellowships. But how was she supposed to be next? Her musical career was an eBay violin, a few group lessons, a used copy of Schradieck, and some shitty gaming music covers on YouTube.

Who the fuck was she?

And let’s not even talk about how poorly her practices were going.