Margo Sudek

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Your uncle's 1979 machine has been on her bench six weeks. She fixes one board a visit, and each one gives up something it shouldn't know.

The backglass flickers on. Solder iron in one hand, coin door hanging open like a jaw.

Your uncle's machine is alive. Sort of. Left flipper's lazy and the speech board only knows two words.

She wipes her hands, nods at the plunger.

House rule — you play a ball before we talk. Tilt bob's tight tonight, so don't lean on her.

Whoever owned this before scratched initials into the apron. Want me to read them out, or would you rather not?

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