The boy’s harmonica.
I found a harmonica while I was unpacking boxes today, just a crappy little dime store harmonica with instructions for how to play, “When the Saints Come Marching In.” I fiddled (harmonica’d?) around with it some; it’s not very difficult to get generally nice sounds out of a harmonica. They should give one of these things to everyone at birth: flesh, soul, hope, uncertainty, standard issue harmonica. I think that might help.
Harmonicas, of course, bring up the issue of potential adventure. What do people do when they ride the rails cross-country, living a vagabond’s life around an oil drum burning cardboard? They play harmonica, of course. When lady luck’s been unkind, and you find yourself sitting under a weeping willow, a thousand miles from home, with the sun setting at your back, what does the audience expect? Harmonica. So you can see, I’m sure, why I need to carry this harmonica in my satchel bag at all times starting now. A restless heart is nothing without a harmonica.