A woman sits on her bedroom floor. She turns a single disc titled "Turn the Wheel" over and over again in her hands. She does this methodically and with exceeding care, as though she is greeting an old friend. After some time, the woman plugs the game into her old PS3 console, sits crisscross in front of the old TV, and starts up her old remote. Another remote, which has old not been used for over 10 years, watches quietly from its home on the woman's nightstand.

On the homemade case of Turn the Wheel rests an old sticky note: "Ready player 2? All yours, M."

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A wooden wheel stands 10 feet in front of you. Its existence is defiantly contradictory in what is otherwise a stereotypical family room, furnished with a fireplace, a TV, a couch, and a coffee table. It is bolted stubbornly to the ground, as if to express that it is, despite what logic should dictate, very much where it is supposed to be.

Walking up, you lightly jostle the handle and find that the wheel can turn both directions, though you keep from moving the wheel further, for fear that something might happen.

What do you do?