“This was awesome, you guys,” he said. “Awesome. Really. Can’t wait to hear what you do next. Awesome.”

And then it was just the two of us, standing in the parking lot.

“Would you mind talking a little longer?” he asked me. “It would be awesome to hear more about your songwriting. We barely covered that.”

“Sure,” I said. This guy was so baby faced and metal nerdy, I didn’t feel uncomfortable, even when I was talking about myself.

“One thing—I hope you won’t care, but I’ve been jonesing for three hours now.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and gestured to the edge of the woods, away from the No Smoking signs that Ike put up around the patio and that everybody else ignores. “You mind?”

“No,” I said. “Go ahead.”

We shuffled into the trees.

It was the very beginning of fall. A few sugar maples were starting to change color, but most of the woods was still thick and green. It smelled like fall, though: that sharper, smokier smell on top of summer’s rotting sweetness. The trees rustled around us as we walked away from the Crow’s Nest. There was a half-moon. The writer guy flicked his lighter, and for a second I could see his round, orange-tinted face beside me, and then his cigarette flared and the light went out.

“So,” he said. “Anders Thorson. That’s even an awesome metal name. Anders Thorson. It makes you sound like one of those Norwegian black-metal dudes who burned churches.”

I laughed. “Yeah. I don’t think that was my mom’s goal when she picked it.”

He laughed, too. “How did you feel about tonight?”

“You mean about our set?”

“Yeah.” He nodded eagerly. “Were you satisfied?”

“I’m never satisfied.”

“Ah.” He smiled and blew out a puff of white smoke, which disappeared up into the dimness. “So you’re a perfectionist.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” The term perfectionist has always seemed dumb to me. Like wanting things to be perfect is so weird that it needs its own special term. I kicked a clump of ferns. “But I know what good enough is. And I know when we’re not there.”

The guy’s eyebrows went up. “You’re really close.”

“Well, thanks. Another five or ten years of insane practice, and then . . . maybe.”

“Oh, I don’t think it will take that long.” The journalist took another drag. “What’s your main passion: playing, singing, or songwriting?”

I scratched a hand through my hair. “I don’t know,” I said again. “I don’t think I’m a great vocalist or anything, so—”

“Dude,” he cut me off. “You reminded me of Trent Reznor tonight. Especially Nine Inch Nails’ late-nineties stuff. Like, The Fragile-era Reznor.”

“No way.” I was glad it was dark so he couldn’t see my idiotic smile.

“Seriously. When you’re straight-up singing, you sound like him. Well—not quite as low.”

“And not quite as good.” We both laughed. “Thanks. But I’m a mediocre singer. And an okay guitarist.”