I was working with some kids and playing accordion. Later, a few wanted to touch it. They were fascinated. They’d press a note, I’d move the bellows, and the thing would sing. Then more kids appeared, each wanting a turn, like popcorn. One confident girl pressed a key, but I stopped moving the bellows. Nothing happened.

“It stopped working,” she said, wide-eyed.

“I think you broke it,” I told her.

Her face froze. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“Well,” I said, “I’ll have to tell your parents they owe me a new accordion.”

She gasped, then caught the smirk. “No way that’s true.”

“Why didn’t it break for the other kids?” I asked. “They played the same notes.”

“I only touched one!” she said, now half-defending, half-grinning.

“Maybe you touched it too hard.”

She crossed her arms, thought for a moment, then said, “I can fix it. Move your arms again like before.”

I did. She pressed a note, the sound came out.

“There,” she said, triumphant. “I fixed it.”

And honestly, she kind of did. Future technician, magician, or politician. Someone who’ll always make sure the evidence cooperates.