Then Frankie turns and strides away, toward the spot where her friends are waiting.

Anders stares after her for a beat. He laughs, a short, ragged sound. “You have no idea.”

Frankie doesn’t look back. I see her say something to her friends. Sasha looks worried. She reaches out with a skinny hand and touches Frankie’s arm. Frankie murmurs something back. Then she climbs, alone, into her car.

Frankie Lynde, alone.

Driving off into the woods.

Alone.

Anders is already striding back toward the Crow’s Nest. His face is a streak of moonlight on shadow. He slams through the door, toward all the loading and packing that’s left to do.

And I’m already on my bike.

Anders

For the second night in a row, I barely sleep.

I’m electric and furious and totally alone. My head is hot. My wrinkled old bedspread might as well be made of fiberglass. I thrash against it. My guts are a knot.

The way that song came out of me—“Devil’s Due”—it felt like something had made an incision in my body and started removing parts of me, right up there on stage, in front of everyone. And all I could do was stand there and let it happen. I had to help it happen. I’ve never had a song come like that, in front of a live audience. I’m usually sick and dizzy after the songs come, but this—this was a thousand times worse.

What the hell is wrong with me? What else can I screw up?

I’ve lost my band. I’ve lost my sort-of girlfriend. Even my cat has abandoned me.

And I deserve to lose them all.

Everything I did. The way I talked. The way I acted. It’s like someone I don’t even recognize. Someone I’ve never even pretended to be.

I pull Yvonne onto my chest. I don’t play. Just having her weight on me, the texture of her strings under my fingers, makes me the tiniest bit less alone. Sometime between three a.m. and dawn, I guess I finally pass out.

And I wake up starving.

In the kitchen I thump through the cupboards, pulling out the coffee filters and the big tub of Folgers, setting out mugs for Mom and Dad.

I find a skillet. There’s a half stick of butter in the fridge, and most of a carton of eggs, and a loaf of white bread. It’s been a couple of years since I made French toast, but I think I still remember how.

I’m halfway through the first pan when Mom drifts into the kitchen in her worn blue bathrobe.

“You started coffee? And French toast?” She leans over the stovetop, beaming. She rubs my back between my shoulder blades. “What’s the occasion?”

I shrug. “I was hungry. And I wanted to do something for you two.”

Mom’s smile quivers. She actually looks teary. Guilt spears me, that such a stupid thing means this much to her. I turn my eyes back to the next slice of bread.