I was seven years old, sitting on red shag carpeting in Nebraska, in front of a wood-grain television cabinet heavy enough that two adults would struggle to move it. It was a Saturday morning in October 1972. My mother was somewhere else in the house, or she was not home. Curtains were drawn. A rotary dial on the front of the cabinet clicked through thirteen VHF positions, though only three of them produced a signal. The rest produced static, a white hiss I associated with emptiness. I turned on the set myself. No one helped me. No one told me to. I did not know I was being trained.