Now the journalist grinned. Moonlight flickered on his glasses. “Know what?” he said. “I think that’s all going to happen for you.”

I gave that kind of snort people give when they’re trying not to sound too dickish.

“I’m serious,” he said. “You’re going to get everything you want. Everything. It’s going to be something to see.” He flicked his lighter, sparking another cigarette. He took a drag, nodding at me the whole time. “I’m telling you, dude. You’re going to do it. You’re going to fly out of this place like a bullet. Like a bomb going off. You’re going to be something.”

There was a crackling in the pit of my stomach where I could feel his words hitting my ambition like a match on kindling. All of a sudden I believed him. I actually, totally believed him. I was going to be something. For a second all the old rock-star fantasies came flaring up. Giant, screaming crowds, me looming onstage in the spotlights and smoke. A gorgeous guitar in my hands.

Then, somewhere in the woods, there was a snap. I gave a little jerk. At first I thought the journalist must have stepped on a twig, but he was moving past me now, back toward the Crow’s Nest, and the sound had come from somewhere deeper in the trees. I held still for a second. Listening. Watching. But I couldn’t see anything in the darkness except the swaying branches, and the journalist was calling to me over his shoulder.

“Hey,” he said, speaking loudly enough that his voice covered any other sounds from nearby. “I’ve got something for you. Come on.”

I hurried after him.

The parking lot was empty except for the dingy white Nissan and one beat-up gray sedan, its back coated with music bumper stickers. Even Ike and Janos were gone.

The journalist popped the sedan’s trunk. Inside, lying on a pile of dirty laundry and a bunch of battered CDs, was a silver hard case.

The journalist picked it up. I could tell from the way he lifted it that it was heavy. Solid. Valuable.

He slammed the trunk and set the hard case on the closed lid.

“Open it,” he told me.

I unlatched the case.

Inside, cushioned on a red-velvet lining, was the most beautiful guitar I’d ever seen.

An Ibanez JEM. Glossy black. Its solid silver pickguard inlaid with twisting vines and flowers.

I’d seen guitars like this—God, I’d studied guitars like this—on blogs and online shops and band sites. I didn’t know exactly what it was worth, but every glinting, gorgeous detail whispered money. Lots and lots of money. Maybe thousands. More than I’d ever had, and maybe would ever have, to spare.

“Nice,” I heard myself breathe.

“Yeah,” agreed the journalist. “Take it.”

The words didn’t even sound like words in my head. It was like at a birthday party, when your friends and family jump out and scream “Surprise!” and for a second you’re so startled and confused that you actually feel angry instead of happy, because being ambushed by something good doesn’t make any sense.