A shoebox-sized package is propped against the front door at an angle. Our
front door has a tiny slot to shove mail through, but anything thicker than a
bar of soap gets left outside. A hurried scribble on the wrapping addresses the
package to Clay Jensen, so I pick it up and head inside.
I take the package into the kitchen and set it on the counter. I slide open the
junk drawer and pull out a pair of scissors. Then I run a scissor blade around
the package and lift off its top. Inside the shoebox is a rolled-up tube of
bubble-wrap. I unroll that and discover seven loose audiotapes.
Each tape has a dark blue number painted in the upper right-hand corner,
possibly with nail polish. Each side has its own number. One and two on the
first tape, three and four on the next, five and six, and so on. The last tape has
a thirteen on one side, but nothing on the back.
Who would send me a shoebox full of audiotapes? No one listens to tapes
anymore. Do I even have a way to play them?
The garage! The stereo on the workbench. My dad bought it at a yard sale
for almost nothing. It's old, so he doesn't care if it gets coated with sawdust or
splattered with paint. And best of all, it plays tapes.
I drag a stool in front of the workbench, drop my backpack to the floor,
then sit down. I press Eject on the player. A plastic door eases open and I slide
in the first tape.