“All right. Well then, what’s life like for rock star Justin Legacy?” said Michelle, teasing Justin a little for changing his name.

“I’m not a rock star. I’m just in a band,” said Justin seriously.

“I know,” Michelle said, letting him know she was just having some fun.

Michelle took a bite of her doughy pizza. (It was “America’s Favorite,” according to the pizza carousel.) And then took a swig of her Moxie. And watched Justin eat his cream horn, which was dropping flaky pastry crumbs all over him. And then said, “I love the name.”

“Huh?”

“Of your band. No Kill Shelter. Awesome.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Justin liked it, too. He had come up with it. And he was glad Michelle liked it.

“Sounds tough.”

Justin smirked. “Well … it’s not.”

“Huh?”

“It’s not. Tough. At all. If you think about it.”

Michelle thought about it. And still thought the name sounded tough. And shook her head, seeking an explanation. So Justin explained. “No-kill shelters don’t kill the animals they shelter. They keep them alive. Until they find homes for them.”

“Oh,” laughed Michelle.

She didn’t know just how appropriate the name was. Justin and his bandmates had all struggled with staying alive—and the band had kept them alive. And it—and music—had given them a home.

“I wanna hear you someday,” said Michelle. But a part of her felt like she never would. Because her life was getting complicated. “Before you get too big,” she added. “Because it looks like you’re getting big.”

It meant a lot to Justin that Michelle knew that his band was getting big. Because they were: they had played a couple of gigs in Boston and their new manager had gotten them one in New York in February.

Michelle leaned over and brushed some pastry flakes off Justin. And hoped he would ask her what she was up to so she could maybe talk to him about the thing she wanted to talk to him about.

But he didn’t. Which wasn’t all that surprising. He was a pretty self-centered guy. And he needed to be. He had a lot he needed to figure out.

So Michelle asked, “You singin’ at the funeral?”

“Yup,” he answered.

“Good. What’re you gonna sing?”

“Somethin’ I wrote.”

“Awesome.” Michelle was surprised by how happy she was that he had written a song for his uncle.

“You sung it for anyone?”

“No.”

Michelle smiled and said, “Sing it for me.” And she motioned toward a small stage in the corner of the café section of Last Gas. It had an electric keyboard set up. And a guitar. And a microphone. Last Gas was trying to rebrand as a coffee house and had open mic nights from time to time. Which meant that anyone could get up and sing a song. Or recite some poetry. Into the mic. If it was open.

And, on the Friday night when all the extraordinary things did or didn’t happen, it was open.

So Justin got up.