Patrick turns up the radio, which just barely picks up the rock station from the Cities.

“FFDP,” I groan. “God. They’re still playing this song?”

“Only every twenty minutes,” says Patrick.

“I need a Five Finger Death Punch in my ears.”

“You’re such a snob, man.” Patrick is wearing his tiny half grin, which is how I know he doesn’t really mean it. Everything Patrick does is so dry and understated, you have to look for little clues to decode what he’s actually thinking. I know him well enough that I can usually catch the truth. “Sorry there’s no Scandinavian death metal station we can pick up from here.”

“Hey, I’m impressed that this thing has a working radio at all,” I say. “What did it come with, an eight-track player?”

Patrick’s half grin curls a tiny bit higher. “Phonograph.”

I crack up.

We stream around a curve, past a riverbed, through a spread of thick old pines. A waft of air sweeps up over my leg. I glance down. There’s a hole in the floor near Patrick’s left foot. Through it, I can see straight down to the asphalt streaking below.

“Holy crap, dude,” I say. “There’s a hole in your floor.”

“Yep.” Patrick’s face doesn’t even change. “I was listening to System of a Down the other day and tapping my foot—”

“Tapping your foot?”

He shrugs with one shoulder. “Guess I tapped a little too hard.”

“Guess you’re driving the Flintstone mobile.”

One corner of Patrick’s mouth grins higher. He cranks up the Five Finger Death Punch.

Jezz is waiting for us in his room, which is half of his parents’ entire basement. He even has his own bathroom down there. It’s pretty sketchy, with a flimsy tin-walled shower and a utility sink with a mirror hung over it, but at least it’s private. His actual bedroom is big enough that there’s space for an old couch at one end. There’s a long built-in desk in the corner, cluttered with cords and iPods and discs and empty Mountain Dew cans. Jezz is sitting at the desk when we come in. He does a slow twirl in the chair, grinning at us the whole time.

Patrick and I flop down on the couch, which is covered with so many layers of Jezz’s clothes that you can’t even tell what color it is.

“Is it up yet?” Patrick asks.

Jezz does another spin in the desk chair. A Slayer T-shirt flaps on the chair back like a flag. “Yep. Twenty minutes ago. Already two hundred thirty views and thirty-five comments.”

“There’s video?” I ask. “Which song?”

“‘Superhero.’” Jezz’s smile gets even wider. “It’s good. The sound’s decent. And you can see the crowd going nuts.”

“You already read it?” says Patrick.

Jezz’s eyebrows shoot up. “No. I waited. I said I would.”

I feel that buzzing electric feeling, that mixture of nerves and adrenaline and dread and hunger that comes on before a show. Nothing to do but dive in. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s read it.”