The next morning, I turned it on to check if it had "fixed itself." The room on the screen was the same, but the green sofa was gone. In its place was a stack of cardboard boxes. Someone was moving.

They walked toward the "lens," and the screen went to pure, white static.

An hour later, there was a knock at my basement door. I didn't answer. I just looked at the TV. The static had cleared. The screen now showed a wide-angle view of a basement studio. My basement studio.

I watched, mesmerized, as a figure—blurred and indistinct—walked across the screen carrying a lamp. I realized then that the "video" wasn't a loop. It was happening in real-time. I felt like a voyeur, but I couldn't look away.

I didn't care. It looked barely used. I hauled it home, plugged it in, and the screen crackled to life with a satisfying hum. But when I hit the "Input" button to hook up my console, the screen didn't go black. It showed a living room.