I smile at him. “She’s good at that.”

“So.” Martin halts again, looking beyond me, into the woods. The last tints of sunset have dwindled away. Fireflies are circling the edges of our yard. Little green-gold sparks flash against the darkness.

“Can we pay you for it?” I ask, lifting the bottle again.

Martin grins. He waves a hand. “Nah. Next time.”

I watch as he climbs into his car and drives carefully away.

I bring the whiskey inside.

Aunt Mae smiles when I tell her about Martin. She sets the bottle on the coffee table. In case she needs it later.

Just in case.

Then we sit down to our hot chicken potpie, with red velvet cake for dessert.

Anders

Thursday night, after the blowup with Jezz and Patrick, and after crashing Flynn’s lesson at the studio, I drive around town for a while. I keep trying to think straight, but I just keep reliving the fight instead, like an ugly track played on a loop. I’m finally heading for home when the song attacks.

I have to pull over to the side of the road. The lyrics and melody, the bass line and thumping drums fill my head. By the time I get the car into park, I can barely see.

I have a pen, but no paper. So I write the whole thing on my arm.

Hear the whispers

turning into roars

Volume rising

beating down the doors

Each note a scream

The drone is deafening

Beat beat beat

until the truth is beaten

Amplify

the things we hide

Tear it down

and turn up the silence

It goes on and on, three more verses, another chorus, all complete.

I have to just sit there for a while afterward. My mouth is sour, and my insides are spinning. I’m afraid some cop is going to pull up beside me and decide I must be drunk. But the road behind me stays empty.

I read the words on my arm. Even though it’s my handwriting, I feel like I’m seeing them for the first time. This isn’t right, says something in the back of my head. This isn’t right. But I’ve got the song.

Finally, when my hands stop shaking, I put the car back in gear and drive home.

Dad’s fixing something in the garage. He gives me a nod as I walk past. Mom flutters around me while I get some leftovers from the fridge. I manage to push the food into my mouth. Then I head down the hallway, shut myself in my room, and start the usual nighttime drill.

Scratch Goblin for a while. Let him out when he starts mrrk-ing at the door. Fifty push-ups. Thirty crunches. Jump rope until some of the energy boiling inside seeps out. Then I sit down on the floor at the end of the bed, take Yvonne out of her case, and start playing the chords that go with the new lyrics. I play them again and again and again, until they’re enameled in my brain along with the words, and my fingers are starting to cramp. Then I stop, even though I can hardly stand to. Stretch. More push-ups. My back aches. My eyes burn. I’m on fire, and it feels glorious. The song is awesome. The crowd at the Crow’s Nest will love it. And it’s mine, as far as anyone else needs to know.