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Michaela remembers when things were different. She is thinking this while winding the spool of tape from her cassette back into itself with a trusty pencil. Who even uses pencils these days she thinks as she slots the tape into the stereo’s open deck and though the sound crumbles into place at first, soon she is listening to Tori Amos singing her birthday-cake cabaret about chasing nuns in the yard, running naked, unmasked, while it’s raining. At least the music takes her places — lets her live thirty years ago, transports her in some sense. What good is now? Where is the magic in this exact world?

Ben takes the book from the shelf, sees the inscription to himself — he really met the author, they had a beer, they had a chat. And after that, he took the book home, to live with the words some more. A while from then, a baby needed nappies, a downsizing took place as well, so he sold the book for scraps of change. He missed it more than any of the others. But then — what chance — he found it again at one of those charity sales with the cardboard boxes that heave and all the airport novels no longer going anywhere. He paid the ten bucks to fill a bag; donated back everything else he bought — all he wanted was that one. It sits with the small handfuls of other books he never sold and never will. It gives him something to hold on to still. It’s good to have something to hold. And to hold onto the story around the book as well as the one within it. Ben met the author. Did you know that?

Ron reckons records are always making a comeback, because every time a new streaming platform opens, several old albums disappear down the back of the metaphorical couch — deep into the metaphysical void. It’s nice to be the keeper of the same old memories that re-enter the consciousness when the revolutions reach thirty-three and one third every minute. Ron knows he can never undo the damage he’s done, the needle strikes down into the groove, and to reverse the record would only make more of a mess. He knows that. But tears deserve a soundtrack. And so, there is still — and always — some happiness this way.

Stella lifts the photo album out from the box from under the bed. She blows the dust from the cover, and studies the inside of the folder: A piece of paper with only remnants of its original sellotape but the years have pushed the paper to the plastic, a tighter bond than many of the people in the pictures have with each other now. But you have to honour the dead. And the passing of time is just another casualty in this war we are all fighting regardless of sign-up. Stella sees her parents making nice, and their parents all standing proud. She sees herself, though can barely recognise the place or why she’s dressed that way. She has a box of letters from her brother Evan. But she could never read his writing.

Nina doesn’t think that Netflix is the enemy as such, but everything’s made to look the same. It’s all designed to be viewed as if a shop window, but no one has thought much further than lining up the product. She has bought back DVDs from the garage sales and second-hand stores. She has exact copies of films she once owned; she has movies she’s never seen and may never get to either, but she has them as a finite collection, a way of making some sense in the world. A way of cutting through the infinite. Some days feel just like a knife. It’s good to be able to stab into the finite.

Wiremu holds the feathers from the skirt his mother wore for school performances. Only a few remain. He put them in his hair before they made him take them out, before they made him answer to William, before he knew the rest of the skirt was rushed out in a box with anything else that suddenly felt leftover. Wiremu strokes the feathers. He says his mum meant more than feathers but now this is all he has. He says don’t ever call him William.

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