INVENTORY OF THE PANEL One rotary dial, seized at 38°C since March. One toggle switch, PURPOSE UNKNOWN, taped in the ON position. One LED, formerly green, now the colour of held breath. Three buttons labelled JETS 1, JETS 2, JETS 3— of which one responds, one clicks without consequence, one has been painted over by a previous owner who also, presumably, gave up. One thermostat needle resting at a temperature the water has never reached. One crack in the fascia, hairline, running northeast like a river on a map of a country you've been meaning to visit. One fingerprint, yours, repeated daily, on the button marked RESET. Ten paper cranes folded from the list of everything the panel was supposed to do. One afternoon, overcast, Wellington, in which the only thing that works is your willingness to stand here and try again.