His thumb trembled. He had tasted glory, devoured by loneliness. He had known love, wrecked by loss. He had cherished home, smothered by repetition. What could peace possibly be? Nothingness? A white room? Oblivion?
.
He pressed the button.
He pulled out the selector. this time.
The hum was different this time. It was not a note, but the silence between notes. He did not travel anywhere. He did not become anyone else. He was still Leo. Still 34. Still in the attic, holding the walnut box. The dust motes still danced in the slanting light from the grimy window. The rent notice still lay on the floor. milan cheek life selector
