Shuffle
It could have been about desperation, when Tyson slid breathlessly into the dojo, his eyes wide and Kai's MP3 player tight in one of his shaking fists.
It could have been about desperation, when they retreated to Tyson's room and tried sound-proofing the door with laundry, and then huddled around the bed with Kai's MP3 player between them.
It could have been about their desperation to know Kai, when they plugged the MP3 player into Tyson's speakers and shuffled through the music, choosing songs at random, listening intently.
But they were baffled, when cello became folk, and then bluegrass, and then reggae, and then fado, screamo, Mozart, enka, trance, and then a Gregorian chant. Metal. Opera. Gangster rap. Salsa. Turkish ballads. Garage bands followed by Vaudeville performances…
"Are you sure that's Kai's..?" Rei asked disbelievingly over a wailing, a capella female voice.
Tyson just collapsed back onto his bed, groaning affirmation.
"Is it possible to like everything..?" Max mused, pressing the skip button—reaching a soothing Hebrew lullaby and tilting his head in confusion.
"Maybe he just doesn't like anything very much," Hilary suggested, sounding sullen.
It could have been about desperation, when Tyson threw a pillow at her face.