Creaky and unsteady on her pins, she weak-kneed it back to that well-worn wooden folding chair, lowered her bulk on the aching matchstick timbers and sighed. A corroded bracket hook, bent at the shoe and nut, pressed uncomfortably into her thigh. No matter. A squint into memory saw the vague form of a half-forgotten song. That was enough to start. Time was grinding out, after all.