The light goes out. The band begins.

The band played only when the refrigerator door was shut.

This was inconvenient for an audience, but excellent for acoustics. The butter softened the high frequencies. The celery supplied a useful rattle. Nobody had yet found a musical purpose for the jar of capers, although it attended every rehearsal.

On trumpet: a maintenance robot smaller than an olive. On bass: a second robot, standing on the date nobody trusted. The drummer played a yogurt lid with two rosemary needles.

At 2:03 a.m., they began their most ambitious number. Sixteen bars. An improvised middle. A difficult feeling about leftovers.

At 2:04, the door opened.

Venue temperature: cold. Audience: mostly cultured. The blue cheese has requested something older.

We have rehearsed the first eight bars 412 times. The human has a habit of appearing during the bass solo and removing part of the stage.

The trumpet vanished behind the milk. The drummer became a harmless clip. The bassist held perfectly still beside the date, which was also making every effort to appear normal.

A hand reached in and took the milk.

The door closed.

The trumpet player stood in full view of the empty shelf. “We need another green room.”

They moved behind a container marked MONDAY. No one asked which Monday. The drummer counted them in.

Two bars later the door opened again. The milk returned. A spoon arrived. The container marked MONDAY left without its lid.

The band watched the spoon. It was enormous. It had excellent resonance.

“Don’t,” said the bassist.

The drummer had already raised a rosemary needle.

Venue has undergone three unannounced configuration changes. Promoter is a person in pajamas who believes this is a place to keep food.

New percussion surface acquired. I have explained that striking it will reveal us. Drummer replies that some things are worth finding out. This is why drummers are stored at the back.

Mara heard one bright, perfect note.

She opened the refrigerator. Nothing moved. Milk, butter, jar, spoon. Three tiny robots were being so ordinary that they had become suspicious.

Mara looked at the spoon. Then at the rosemary. Then at a yogurt lid with two very small dents.

She shut the door.

For a long time, the band listened.

A piece of paper slid beneath the seal: ONE MORE. QUIETLY.

The trumpet player climbed onto the butter. The bassist moved the date a respectful distance from the crowd. The drummer put down one needle.

Outside, Mara stood barefoot with her ear against the door.

For the first time in its career, the refrigerator had a listening human and nothing to warn her about.

The human has discovered us and requested continuation. This is a novel maintenance outcome.

We played the whole middle section. Nobody removed the stage. Tomorrow we may attempt an encore, provided the butter has not been booked for breakfast.