She said, ever since he started going to our meetings however, she had noticed ‘a real turnaround in his attitude.’ Talking to Crystal felt like twisting the cap off a bottle of pop, as all the bubbles rushed to the surface. She told me she worked part-time as a manicurist, but wasn’t getting the hours she wanted, and then pointed out her salon in the cluster of stores on the far side of the parking lot. She looked up at Damian and scratched his goatee, as he scrunched up his face. The more the three of us chatted, the more it struck me that he hadn’t told her about The Hum. I wondered what he had told her about our group. From the way they were both talking, it felt like he had represented it as some kind of Bible study. I suppose we all had to find a way to suture the realities of our old and new lives together, in whatever way we and our loved ones could handle. But it seemed strange for him to have kept The Hum secret, convinced, as he was, that thousands more people could hear it. But then it occurred to me, looking at Crystal, and Elijah in the cab with his blue-stained lips, that perhaps Damian had kept this from them for a reason. Like so much else in his life, no doubt. As miraculous as The Hum had revealed itself to be, I would have shielded Ashley and Paul from it too, had I somehow been able to. Perhaps they would still be in my life if I had. Not being able to hear The Hum, when your loved one does, must be a special kind of confusing agony. After a minute or so of pleasant chat we parted ways, but not before Crystal offered me a friends and family discount at Infinity Nails.

As I drove home, I felt the same effervescence from earlier, though Damian’s words lingered with me. Coasting through the neighbourhood, it felt difficult to square the pristine yards, children’s basketball nets, and family minivans with the threat of surveillance and infiltration. I reminded myself that beautiful things didn’t always need to feel fleeting or endangered. I tried to refocus my energies towards savouring this strange post-tuning lightness of spirit. As I did, I found myself picturing an iridescent film of oil on the surface of a puddle. The puddle was black and bottomless, so perhaps it was a lake. A lake of pure sensation. And the oil slick—what was that? Was that me? My life? How did one merge with the lake, or was I only destined to contaminate it? I slipped so deep into this image that I nearly ran a stop sign. An elderly woman walking a terrier shot me a death stare. I held up my hand in apology, which she didn’t acknowledge.