My old friend look crazed, her eyes bloodshot like she hadn’t slept in days and her face twitchy. “Can’t get it out, can I? And I’m not going in. But they never come back. One after the other, in they go, bye, bye, bye. But they never come out!” She pointed at me accusingly. “You. You can get it out, can’t you? Because you’re the one who made it.” She carefully picked up the music box by the base, holding it towards me and revealing a twirling ballerina within.
