I stand at the end of Jezz’s driveway for a minute, taking deep breaths. Then, when I feel a little less freaked out, I turn and head down Franconia Street.

I walk downtown—or what passes for downtown in Greenwood. Six blocks of cafés, junk stores, dentists’ offices. You could sleepwalk from one end to the other in three minutes. I keep my steps slow. I’ve got hours to waste, and nowhere to go, and a guitar in my hand, and $3.75 in my pocket.

At Sixth Street I turn right, away from Main, toward the park. You don’t look like you’re loitering if you do it in a park. I shuffle past the rows of old brick and clapboard houses, under trees flaming with fresh gold leaves, past alleys and yards and streets all still half asleep and Saturday-morning quiet.

I’m in the middle of a block when it attacks me. The line. Rhythm. Lyrics. Melody tangled into the words.

Damn it.

I shove my hand into the pockets of my jeans. No pen. No paper.

Goddamn it.

I spin around on the sidewalk, searching the ground, like there might be a notebook and pencil just waiting there. More words are coming. They pile up in my skull, water behind a dam.

Hold on. I could text it to myself. Every text costs money, as Mom and Dad will be sure to remind me. But hopefully it won’t take more than two to get it all down.

I set Yvonne’s case on the sidewalk and pull out my phone.

Shadow Tag

Turn + turn again

as fast as I can

You’re still beside me

No matter how I run

you’re behind me

holding tight to my ankles

And if I fall

if I stagger into the street

if I stumble

that’s when you’ll finally catch me

The music swallows me up. I’m lost in it; I’m in love with it; it’s inside of me, but it’s so much bigger than I am that I can’t hold on—

And then a car horn blares right beside me.

I jump. Like a moron. I barely manage not to drop the phone.

“Hey,” calls a voice.

Frankie’s deep blue car has pulled up beside the curb, purring softly. Frankie cranes around Sasha, who’s sitting in the passenger seat, and beams out at me. “Need a ride?”

“Um—not really.” My vision wavers. My brain is still scrambling after the song like a kid chasing the string of a runaway kite. “I’m just . . . walking.”

“I’m dropping Sasha off. She spent the night,” Frankie says.

Sasha smiles at me as though this is fascinating information.

“Oh,” I say. Great answer, moron.

“Then I’ll take you wherever you want to go,” Frankie says. “Frankie’s Taxi Service. Come on. Get in.”

I can’t think of a single excuse. Not even a stupid one. I pick up Yvonne and climb into the backseat, like a little kid sitting behind his babysitters.

“So,” says Frankie over her shoulder as she pulls back into the empty street, “what were you up to this morning? Being a wandering minstrel?”