She found old receipts for travel expenses. Lunch in Lawrence, Kansas, in 1994. Dinner in Saskatchewan, 1988. An electronics shop for “tape recorder repair,” 2009.

The bottom drawer on the right side was locked. She could tell at a glance that none of the keys in the tray were the correct size for opening it.

Still drafting off confidence from picking the door lock, she assailed the tiny keyhole with her paper clip, but to no avail. A few more tugs on the handle showed her the drawer was tightly secured. She looked again at the desk blotter; the letter opener blade looked thin enough to fit between the top of the drawer and its frame.

She gave it a moment’s thought, knowing she would leave a visible trace of forced entry. Then with a glance at the open door to the hallway, she hammered the opener blade in over the top of the drawer with the heel of her hand and gave it a firm sideways wrench.

The interior clasp snapped. The drawer was loose. She at least hoped it was good booze.

The drawer rolled open to reveal a reel-to-reel tape recorder. She lifted it out, placing it on the blotter. Heavy construction, not pure plastic. Beige in color; Sony-branded, though the letters were widely spaced—S O N Y—in a compressed, dated typeface; and sporting an old, two-pronged electric plug. The case promised “high-fidelity.” The twin spindles were empty. She found a handful of seven-inch tape reels in the back of the drawer and piled them on the desk next to the tape deck. She had a vague memory of her grandfather spooling up tape. She was curious enough to try.

She set one reel on the left spindle, then reversed it, unspooling tape and feeding it through the reader part. The brown tape was brittle; she had to be careful not to snap it. She curled it around an empty reel on the receiving end and figured out how to crimp it in a slot near the bindle so it would not unspool. She wound it a few feet by hand, then plugged the deck into the wall, the prongs connecting to the electric current with a cranky blue spark.

She switched the deck on and then turned the dial to PLAY. It worked! Or seemed to—no sound came out of it at first. She turned the dial again and the tape fast-forwarded with scary speed. She turned it back to PLAY.

The sound of a microphone being bumped startled her. “Testing, testing.”

She turned the volume down on a baritone voice, clear but for the scratchiness of the aged Mylar tape.

There was then a radio recording that started up mid-song, also scratchy and distant, then some bumps as the recording microphone was moved closer:

Here come the stars tumbling around me…

There’s the sky where the sea should be…