He was shown into a room by the curators, and they told him the film would start shortly. The room was small, the size of a large walk-in closet, maybe, with speakers against the back wall, a screen covering the entire front wall. An armchair sat in the exact middle of the room, and there was a circular sidetable next to the left arm of the chair and on it a bowl of popcorn, which was an extraordinary touch, he thought. He sat down. The film started, though there were no pictures–he could heard dialogue, something about a trip to New Jersey to pick up a high-chair. A man and a woman speaking, and he found both voices calming. Then silence. Then a baby crying, and this seemed to go on for quite a long time, three or four minutes. And then a child’s voice said, “Mama,” and sang a little wordless nonsense song. Then the same voice, clearer, said “I’m very disappointed.” And that he found odd, though he could not determine why–there was something unsettling about that sentence, not so much the content of it, but the aura about it, as though this were a triggering phrase for him, something he had been conditioned long ago to respond to. “Won’t you marry me?” the little voice said, breathing deeply. “I love you more than life itself.” Hearing this made him shiver, for he had said much the same thing–if not that precise phrase–when he’d proposed to a girl he knew in the first grade. He’d knelt down on the hard ground of the recess yard and presented a costume ring to this girl, and said a line he’d heard in a movie. How would this have been recorded? he wondered. Or had it been recreated? He looked over his shoulder to see whether one or both of the curators was in the room, but the only presence behind him was that of the speakers, which continued to broadcast excerpts from the dialogues and monologues of his life.