The notebook opened at Hana's name.
Beneath it, in the uneven writing from my first weeks here, was the sentence about the kettle sound. I had added details later. The borrowed microphone. June's recordings. The headphones that kept slipping when Hana nodded.
None of those lines explained why I could still become annoyed when I remembered the argument.
I had found a cleaner whistle for their play. No footsteps, no crackle, no laugh caught at the wrong moment. I had been pleased enough with the improvement to play it twice after Hana rejected it the first time.
She had waited through both attempts and asked for the old one back.
The bad sound was the joke. I had improved the part she wanted to keep.
I remembered giving her the mouse with a little more force than necessary. She moved the two recordings beside each other, listened again and shortened the silence before the captain spoke.
