When Kor had said we could use Maker knowledge to help our world, that had been inspiring but theoretical.

This is personal.

Once Sal is out of the room and I see that Grandfather is still sleeping soundly, I tear open the package with trembling hands.

Inside is a cube. It’s about the same size as the music box my father gave me, which I’ve kept on my nightstand since I was a child. The music box turns out to be an apt comparison, because when I turn the cube in my hands, it plays a range of musical tones. Each wall of the cube is made of a different material. One side is clear like glass, one is wood, one is an ambery resin, one is clay-ish—similar to what Michael’s pigeon is made of—one is some kind of metal, and the last side is silk.

Each wall plays a different music note when pressed. I shake the box but don’t hear anything inside. I hold it up to the light and try to look through the glass-like wall but see nothing. I think it’s a puzzle.

Of course, a straightforward application would be too much to ask of this mystery school. Straightforward, like the city college applications burning a hole in my desk drawer upstairs.

I lift the cube, shake it, and press each side, creating a tune from the different sounds. Maybe there’s a musical code that needs to be played to unlock it? Nothing I try works. I don’t even know if opening the box is the goal.

I’ve had enough of everyone being cryptic. I’m overcome with the urge to just throw the thing out the window and see what happens when it crashes on the pavement, but I restrain myself.

I use a pen and try to wedge the tip between the walls of the cube, but it doesn’t fit. I look around the room for something else I can try. My grandmother’s old Singer sewing machine is in the corner, nothing more than decoration these days. I go to it and rifle through the drawers. There are spools of thread, thimbles, and countless loose buttons. There, in the back corner, I find what I’m looking for: a pincushion impaled with multiple pins and needles.

I sit in the window seat with a sewing needle and try to rip it through the silk side of the cube—which emits a loud, discordant note until I release it—but the fabric is surprisingly strong. I poke the needle into a crack where the walls of the box meet, and I’m able to insert the point in about a centimeter, but then it refuses to budge. I push against the needle, trying to pry the sides of the box apart, but the needle springs loose and stabs my thumb.

Ouch.