We searched for the perfect smoke alarm, one that played a song to remind us of our love. We liked two. But we swam to separate ends of the aviary to hear as many models as possible: who knew how long our dream would last? Alone, I found one dusty and yellowed. It sang a simple song, but as I pressed a candle to it again and again, it grew on me. I awoke just now with the song’s last bars as strong in me as if they were playing on my clock radio, their line a sweet refrain clipped and left to repeat itself at the end. I told Victoria with tears (she had not returned but is with me now) that the song was penned by one of my weaker ninth grade boys, one who always leaves and returns from lunch alone.