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In the corner of the foyer, to the left of the door, is a piano. I have no idea where it came from or how long it has stood there. Its motives are unknown. Lana sits at the thing. She perches on its square little chair and pops the lid to reveal its powerful zebra mouth. She runs her fingers over the heavy white keys, waiting with the anticipation of pressure to make a sound. She does it slowly, preciously, as though the instrument is thing of another world. Her eyes close. A crisp ‘A’ note flashes through the room, then another as she draws her finger down again on the key in quick succession.