When your sleep is pierced with the sound of a French Horn, you know you missed something. When you see your spouse at the bottom of the stairs blowing that horn, you wonder if you’d been on Mars for the past eight years.
“What the heck is this?” you yell and instinctively roll yourself into a cocoon with your blanket.
“I’m waking up Myong, he’s late for school,” says your unphased spouse.
“Really? How did you learn to make sound with this thing?” Your brain is groggy and disturbed.
“I played bugle in Junior High.”
No more questions. I’ve been living with the Phantom.