I used to work at an overnight care center for deaf kids with emotional problems. It was the summer before I went to Cuba and I would stay up all night studying music while the little ones slept. Sometimes they’d wake up to use the bathroom or because they’d had nightmares, but my ASL was pretty limited. I’d read their files between music excercises on my toy piano: “Their twisted little sagas unwind through evaluation forms and concerned emails. Julio plays with himself at meal times. Devon isn’t allowed near mirrors on the anniversary of his rape. Tiffany hides knives in case the faceless men come back for her.”

That experience forms the backdrop to this story, a Brooklyn remix of the Orpheus myth complete with a toy piano and creepy basement.