“No.” I say it quickly and then let out a settling breath. “Adams is the lead singer and guitarist for a band finishing their first world tour, writing their next studio album, and adjusting to an entire world’s attention on them. He hardly sleeps from what I’ve seen, and there’s little downtime with the additional shows. I’m not forcing a cam and mic on him anytime he’s allowed to breathe.”

The noise-canceling of my earbuds is highly unappreciated once I finish. The only sound is paper burning as Heath draws out a drag, studying me while I try like hell not to give him anything else. No need to accidentally mention with my eyes how Adams and I are allergic to anything one-on-one at the moment.

Foster’s avoided me since Seattle, and I haven’t exactly chased him down. He didn’t even hesitate after I told him the SD card was in my bag. And asking about the fountain after so long. I didn’t expect him to remember either, and it felt like I finally found him again. Now I have to remember what it’s like to miss him.

Except he’s everywhere.

Heath tosses his butt somewhere on the concrete of his garage. Away from the pieces of unassembled crib. His eyes bore into the camera and me and likely the rest of the bus behind me before he sighs and swipes up his phone. “Get the interviews.”

Underneath the clipped tone, I latch onto the unspoken trust. We both know he’d be on a plane to Utah right now if I were anyone else.

“As you wish.” I glance up when Colton comes up the bus’s stairs and then return to Heath. “I’ll send what we have from this week after I review it. Good luck finishing your shrine. Maybe try adding a pickleball racket.”

He huffs and taps away on his screen. “Fuck off. I’m making Xander put this shit together.”

Oh, my roommate will love that. Xander video-chatted me the other day, facedown on our couch and begging for a reason as to why he agreed to be Heath’s assistant while I’m gone. I rattled off a short list of the director’s credits before he started fake sobbing. Crib duty might end in actual tears.

“Right.” Heath drops his phone and sits forward, reaching toward the camera. “Don’t fuck this up, Sinner.”

The video blacks as he shuts his laptop, and then the call disconnects.

I smile and close my own computer. Even without Foster’s—Adams’s—interviews, a loose shape’s forming for the documentary. I’ve rewritten and rearranged my original notecards a couple times, but more than a few feel solid. The key elements I’ll fight for until the end. Those reveal more truth about Of Men and Wolves than any requests from Mac Records to further commercialize Adams North.