Rosa Hubermann was sitting on the edge of the bed with her husband's accordion tied to her chest. Her fingers hovered above the keys. She did not move. She didn't ever appear to be breathing.

“Mystery bores me. It chores me. I know what happens and so do you. It's the mac…”

“Still, they have one thing I envy. Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense…”

“He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He step…”

“I'm not the messenger at all. I'm the message. ”