I take my cappuccino out to the edge of the patio. Three other outdoor tables are already taken by people with dark clothes and bright tattoos. I don’t recognize any of them. The wind through the trees is blowing harder. Spatters of loose leaves click across the pavement.

Janos has made a leaf in the foam on top of the cappuccino. It’s pretty. Brown-veined and delicate. I whirl it into a smudge with my fingertip.

Far off to the north, there’s a rumble of thunder.

The crowd grows fast. People from school, people from town, people I’ve never seen. They lounge at the edges of the parking lot, smoking. They crowd around the coffee counter. They stake out spots near the edge of the stage.

Around five-thirty Jezz and Patrick pull up. I can see them park from my spot at the patio’s edge. They climb out of the rusty pickup and begin to unload. Patrick’s face is hard. Harder than usual. Even Jezz, who’s always joking about something, looks like someone who’s just witnessed a car crash.

A few minutes later Anders pulls in next to them.

He steps out of the little white car. He’s wearing faded black jeans. A gray T-shirt that fits tight around the tops of his arms.

“Hey,” says Jezz.

“Hey,” I see Anders answer.

Patrick doesn’t say anything.

The people around me have taken notice. The regulars, the kids from school, the newcomers who recognize Last Things from pictures they’ve seen online. They’re all watching the band, trying to pretend they’re not watching. They’re noticing the heaps of cables, the hard black cases, the way the band swings into this wordless routine. They probably don’t notice the tension strung between them, invisible and strong as spiders’ thread.

But I see it. The woods see it, too. They’ll use it if they can.

The guys carry their equipment to the far door. Jezz and Patrick and Ike begin the drill they perform every weekend. Placing stands. Checking wires. Anders carries loads back and forth from the parking lot, keeping his head down. He avoids the stage like it’s something hot.

More car doors slam.

More and more.

I slip inside, through the patio doors, into the very back of the room.

The band gathers for a quick sound check. Anders keeps his back to the room, his head down. He tests a mic, a handful of chords, then disappears through the backstage door. A few minutes and a few notes later, Jezz and Patrick follow.

Soon the Crow’s Nest is fuller than I’ve ever seen it. Bodies and voices ricochet from the walls. I see most of the senior class. Frankie’s friends, in a tightly orbiting cluster. Frankie herself, wearing a halter-neck dress that makes one guy walk straight into a table and spill his coffee. I spot Flynn, Anders’s guitar teacher, halfway up the room’s right side. He doesn’t usually come to the shows. I try to look closer, but he’s already lost in the crowd. More schoolkids. More people in expensive boots who’ve driven up from the Cities. More and more and more.