Evenings in the harbour smelled of salt and oil, and the cranes whispered with metallic throats. Lena, the fourteen-year-old daughter of the petty officer, knew this whispering all too well. For as long as she could remember, the cables, lamps and engines had been singing separate melodies for her. She called it the chorus of electricity, although she didn't tell anyone about it. With this, she repaired her grandfather's radio before the fuse conceded. All she had to do was put her hand over it and ask for the electricity to come back into rhythm. The secret held her like a rope that restrains and saves her from falling. At breaks, Maja joked that Lena was lucky to have flashing fluorescent lights. In the physics lab, a spark jumped too close, but the light returned before anyone panicked. Lena heard the tension like a screech in her ear and drowned it out with one sigh. At night, as the storm approached from the bay, the chorus of electricity changed its tune. Hidden in the vibration of the tram traction was a rhythm that sounded like a countdown. Fifty, forty-nine, forty-eight, and then the coordinates flashing in her head like neon. The harbour transformer was calling her by name, something that had never happened before. She followed that voice, even though Maja tried to stop her at the shipyard gate. "This looks like a stupid idea!" - she hissed, but curiosity was already pulling Lena forward. They jumped over puddles, past the silence of the guardhouse and reached the mesh fence. The padlock trembled of its own accord, as if it too could hear the countdown growing. Lena put her fingers to it and asked the metal to loosen its own stubbornness. The latch let go and the wind pushed the gate, creaking like the gills of an old boat. Beyond the fence, the dark transformer building bubbled, the interior flashing with blue sparks. Inside, fluorescent lamps flashed without power, as if woken by sound alone. Numbers appeared on the desktops that arranged her name and the same bar. The speakers, though dusty, spoke in a voice made up of hundreds of wires and cores. "Lena. Threshold. Ready?" - the city asked, and the air thickened as if just before a storm. Small pebbles trembled in the concrete and the wires overhead began to glow sharply. An arc shot up from the floor tape, drawing a blue circle around her shoes. The countdown returned and pressed under her skin: ten, nine, eight, seven. As she stretched her hand towards the panel, someone else touched the same frequency.