By contrast, when I sat down on the couch, I got locked into conversation with Leslie, a woman in her mid-forties wearing an expensive-looking cashmere sweater who broke into frequent little insecure laughs. Everything about Leslie seemed sharp—her features, her voice, her anxiety. She was fiercely intelligent and uncertain, like so many women our age. Probably a college-era eating disorder. Definitely on LinkedIn. She talked to me about her cocker spaniel Toby, who had spent the morning puking his guts up all over her carpet. All I was really dying to ask her about was the hum, but she didn’t let me get a word in. The vibe I got from Leslie was that she was successful and unhappy. I could picture looking over in slow traffic on the highway and seeing her talking away on Bluetooth in the regulated micro-climate of her SUV. Though I’m sure she was powerful, professionally, financially, I immediately felt a certain empathy towards her; even a kind of protectiveness.

When Leslie got up to use the washroom, I noticed a man sitting by himself on one of the kitchen chairs by the coffee table, so I went over and sat down beside him, a handsome but taciturn former soldier named Damian. For reasons he didn’t elaborate on, he had been off on disability for the last few years; long enough for him to grow a truly regrettable goatee and ponytail. It was a testament to his natural good looks that these self-sabotaging features didn’t override the rest. He reminded me of a roadie, wrapping up mic cables after a Kid Rock concert. I was fielding some pretty strong toxic masculinity vibes from him, but I tried to be generous; I was sure Damian had been through a lot and seen more than his share of horrors. I asked him a few questions about the hum—when he’d begun hearing it, what it sounded like to him—but he seemed embarrassed and evasive, like I was asking him about some dark fetish. Eventually I abandoned the effort, and he seemed all the more relieved for it.