It’s never quiet outside the station. She’s had to get used to the noise interrupting her sleep every night, until she became inured to the noise itself, and reached the point where she couldn’t hear it anymore. Even so, at daybreak, as the light gradually begins streaming into the room, the sound of the cell phone ringing wakes her with a violent start. The brilliant composer has been drinking all night and is garbling his words, she can barely understand him. Still half-asleep, the girl manages to grasp the gist of his rambling — a comparison of success and failure, success depending on not taking shit from anyone. He says you don’t have to do much to get shit from people, just scratching yourself is enough. He’s partying with the latest conquest and some girl he met during the night. He hasn’t mentioned music yet. Perhaps it got lost somewhere along the way, or perhaps the tour bus left the neighboring country’s capital without it. She hangs up and gets back under the sheets. Her father hasn’t gotten in yet, and she’s had another bad night’s sleep. Once again, she’s been unable to stop thinking about the same things: aliens, hypnotism, and nothingness. She goes out to the hallway in search of Cousin McGregor, but it seems he hasn’t gotten back yet either. So the girl grabs the gun and heads back to the station. Surely one of them is keeping watch. At this time in the morning there are very few people around, and hardly any cars, which combined with the dawning light gives the Grand Central Station an uncanny aspect. Perhaps it’s a holiday, she thinks. Once again, there’s no trace of her cousin or father. She takes out her cell phone and dials his number, but the phone’s turned off and a woman’s voice invites her to leave a message after the tone. When the girl gets back to the hotel room, she tries checking the other phones and the fax machine. She then goes onto the balcony to monitor the plaza. She doesn’t know why, but she feels she should stick to her post on the balcony until her father finally calls. As usual, she doesn’t know where he’s gone, or when he’ll be back. He didn’t tell her, he never tells her. But she shouldn’t worry about it. They really don’t say much to one another at all. Are you writing? he always asks, while avoiding any of her questions. Still, she’d rather not talk about writing until she resolves the question of her hypnosis. But she knows she shouldn’t be worrying about it. What should I do with the fax machine and those phones? Who’s keeping watch at the station? These are now the questions that plague her. A few hours later, she phones the young conductor. He wants her to leave them alone. He wants her to stop calling him. Why is she so jealous, he asks, chuckling condescendingly, when she should be more understanding of his relationship with the new soprano? She should just accept they’re not together anymore; that they don’t make love anymore. Then the young conductor tells her reassuringly that, sooner or later, she’ll forget all about him; time will heal her wounds. The girl would like to be able to coolly sever her association with the young conductor and brilliant composer; she’d love to be able to take a deep breath, hang up, and forget about them in that same instant. She doesn’t want to wait the length of time it takes to heal a wound. So she insults him, reproaches his stupidity, his misplaced arrogance. Success often paralyzes the mind, she says, but she’s never seen it happen so fast, and so thoroughly. The Sinfonietta’s finished, they’ve been ousted from the vanguard, condemned to a future of selling out and merely parroting popular trends. The words come swift and true and from the heart. All they must do to secure musical oblivion is to keep doing what they’re doing. Either way, they’re stuck with the path they’ve chosen. It’s too late for them now. She hangs up.