“What?” I said.

“Take it.” He shrugged, smiling. “It’s yours.”

“Dude. I can’t take it. This thing is worth—”

He was already shaking his head. “Who cares? I got it in trade from a rich-kid friend of my roommate who wanted my old XBox collection. Seriously. Plus, he sucks at guitar. Not that I should talk. I don’t even play.” He laughed. “See? This thing deserves to be played. By you.”

I stared down at the guitar.

I wanted it.

I wanted her.

More than I’d ever wanted any single object in the world.

In my head I skimmed through everything I owned. I had fourteen dollars in my wallet, all that was left from two recent lawn-mowing jobs. There was a little change in the Nissan’s armrest, probably another two bucks or so, although that wasn’t technically mine. I had nothing at home. My garage-sale speakers, maybe. The account number for a “college fund” that wouldn’t cover a single credit, if I ever ended up going. Mom and Dad sometimes kept a little cash at the back of the junk drawer for emergencies, but I knew I couldn’t take that, either. They’d been cutting corners everywhere. Cancelling subscriptions. Keeping the thermostat at eighty-two degrees all summer to save on air-conditioning. There was no help there.

It hit me like an actual, physical pain: I could not have this thing. Even now, when it was right in front of me.

“I can’t just take it,” I got the words out. “I have to pay you something for it.”

“Dude.” The journalist spread his hands. “You becoming a world-famous guitarist with this thing will pay me for it. You can thank me in your liner notes someday.” He snapped the case shut. I instantly wanted to shove it open again. To see her again. But then he turned and held the case out to me. “Here,” he said. “It’s yours.”

The silver box was just inches away. I knew I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t. But without even really trying, my hands opened and turned over, and I reached out and grasped the guitar case.

“Seriously . . .” I started, but I had no idea how to finish the sentence.

“Seriously.” He smiled at me, his round, babyish face catching the moonlight. “It’s meant for you.” He jingled the car keys in his hand. “I’ve got to hit the road. But we’ll be watching for you. In a couple years we’ll check in again. See how far you’ve come.”

I was still standing with my feet glued in place, like if I moved all this might collapse around me. “Maybe by then I can pay you back for this.”

The journalist opened the driver’s side door. “Don’t worry about it,” he called back to me. “I’m just glad it will have a good home.” He climbed into the car. “It’s been awesome, man. Awesome.”

When the car’s taillights came on, I finally jerked myself out of place. I stumbled out of the way as the journalist backed up, giving me one last big smile and wave from his window, then watched him peel out of the parking lot.