A town where everything comes out perfect because any hour can be replayed until it's right. Outside the town there's a pile of something nobody wants to look at.

Here favors are collected: every one you accept ties a string to your wrist. People walk around tangled and in groups, and the only free man in town has spent thirty years sitting alone.

They land in a red canyon town where everyone shuts their doors as soon as they arrive. A kid asks them how much is left on the record. When the music ends, something comes out.

An auction house where absolutely everything is for sale, whether it's for sale or not. By the time they notice, the booth has a lot number and they don't have a cent on them.

A train that hasn't stopped in generations: people are born, get married and say goodbye on board. Up front there's a door nobody has opened, and their booth is in the last car.

A place where everything exists exactly twice. Five minutes after arriving there are two of them too, and the other two are more likeable.

They get pushed on air as contestants without anyone asking their names. The audience never stops clapping, nobody explains what the prize is, and there's a door at the back of the set that opens by itself.

The needle skips and they get stuck between grooves. In each one they're drawn a different way, and they have to find their own before the record ends.

They discover that someone built the Rocola, and that there's a number engraved on it they never bothered to look at.

The Rocola breaks for real. And it turns out it wasn't the only thing that had been coming together all this time.

They land inside a week. Not inside a day: inside the seven-floor building where every floor is a day. Tuesday has been under construction since 2003 and nothing ever gets finished there. That is why it smells.

Under the mixing desk there is a record with no printed label. The label is stuck on, and it has been licked. While that side plays, you can understand the cat.

A stadium that is a mouth. Kenya just wants a record that actually plays, and here the only thing with grooves is made of somebody.

A laughter factory inside the ribs of something that is still alive. Kenya's ugly laugh is worth more than anyone else's because it cannot be faked. And it comes out only once.

The booth spits out a part that is not its own. Malios finds out there are more broken booths out there and decides to fix them all today. Not to help anyone: to be the one who fixed them.

A beach day where the sand is vinyl and the grooves run down into the water. Nothing happens for the whole episode. That is the joke. The lifeguard hasn't gone in for eleven summers.

The needle gets stuck between two grooves and the booth stops travelling: now it receives. Channel hopping, and on every channel someone is selling something. The two of them show up as extras and nobody looks at them.

The booth won't start because one screw is missing. One. Four square metres, five minutes, two people and a cat. It ends with sixty identical screws lined up.

The whole episode is what the booth's security camera recorded. Dirty black and white, nobody frames anything, and on the tape you can see something that has been walking past them for two seasons.

Kenya wants the booth to stop answering her back. So she takes it to the one place she has never taken it: nowhere.

For the first time in two seasons the booth listens to the record, and drops them in the first normal place of the whole series: a bus terminal at three in the afternoon. Nothing bad happens. That is what is wrong.