I was reading in the Rolling Steel Tent. It was chilly and the doors and windows were closed, so it was very quiet. I became aware of a soft sound that resembled the pickity-tickety of a hard drive as its heads flicked back and forth. It was combined with a hollow ping-a-ta-plink sound. What was it? Where was it coming from?
The sound disappeared as I moved toward the front of the van and returned as I moved toward the back, but it got softer at the very rear. It got fainter as I sat more upright and louder as I scrunched down. Ah-ha! There it was, right next to my good ear. An open can of diet cola.
The can had been open for a while, so it was releasing only dozens of bubbles at a time instead of billions. The soda-to-empty-can ratio determined the pitch.
Life in the Rolling Steel Tent has been a series of mysterious sounds, from flopping bungee cords, to a cracked roof rack, to a mouse, to things going on in my own body. Now, if only I could do something about the voices.