Now I open my bedroom door. Goblin darts out ahead of me, streaking toward the kitchen. I follow him.

A note in Mom’s cursive is taped to the fridge.

Hope you got some rest. We thought you needed it. I called the school and spoke to the secretary already. We’ll be home late (Frank Rohmer’s retirement party, remember?), but your dinner is in the freezer.

Love, Mom

There’s an open two-liter of flat Coke in the fridge, next to the half-empty can of cheap tuna for Goblin. I scoop some tuna onto his dish of dry cat food. Then I take the bottle of Coke back to my room.

I don’t even want to turn on my computer. In a town this size, everybody will be talking about the same thing: the mysterious car in the river. Everyone’s feeds will be full of pictures of the black Audi dangling on its rope over the water like some giant mutant fish. Everyone will be spreading rumors, pasting made-up theories of serial killers and underground drug rings onto the few actual facts. Everyone will be saying that they think they recognize the woman or the car just so they can feel like they’re part of this.

If I can’t turn on my computer, I can’t listen to music. But I need some other sound to erase the awful echoes in my head.

For the first time in three days, I grab Yvonne. This is the longest I’ve gone without playing ever since I first picked up a guitar. Ever since our last show—our last show—I haven’t even been able to think about playing. It’s dragged too much bad stuff along with it. The withdrawal hits me all at once. A sick emptiness runs through my whole body.

But Yvonne feels different in my hands now. Resistant. Awkward.

I strum a simple G chord. My left hand is clumsy. It’s almost like the fingers are asleep, except there are no pins and needles. I shift chords. D minor. C minor. The slide of the strings under my fingers is familiar, but distant now, like a word you’ve used a million times but suddenly can’t remember. And my right hand won’t do what I want it to.

It reminds me of middle-school dances, when a slow song would come on and you’d rock stiffly back and forth with your hands on some girl’s shoulders, if you were lucky enough to be dancing with a girl at all. I spent most of those nights with Jezz and Patrick hanging around near the DJ’s table. We’d watch him press buttons and cue songs, begging for Metallica or Black Sabbath or at least “Free Bird.” I was a skinny kid with knobby shoulders and big feet. I didn’t know how to use my own body. I don’t think I figured out what my body was for until I learned to play guitar.

I play the melody line from “Deep Water.”

The timing is off. My touch is heavy. My third and fourth fingers won’t lift.