“It records lossless WMA files, Mary,” he announced at breakfast, pressing the red button. “From now on, I will preserve every significant auditory event in this household.”
In the dark, the little red light blinked once, then went still. And somewhere downstairs, Mary smiled, because she’d heard him through the floorboards—no recorder required.
“Mother, repeat what you just said about the church potluck.”
“For science.”
“Absolutely not.”
He pressed record one last time before sleep.
Meemaw leaned against the doorframe. “You plannin’ to sell this as an ASMR tape, or are you just trying to annoy me into an early grave?”