And I went home with the guitar.

Dad was still up. He used to go to bed early. Ten at the latest. Even earlier if he had a job to get to in the morning. But lately he’d been staying up past midnight. Sometimes I’d still hear the sound of the living room TV when I climbed into bed.

He glanced up from the saggy armchair when I walked in. Some late-night movie glowed on the TV screen. I was carrying my amp and two guitar cases, the Les Paul’s battered black one and the shiny silver. Flashes from the screen glinted on its edge.

“What’s that?” Dad said.

It figured that he would notice. Even the Ibanez’s case was too nice for me. It stuck out in our house like a giant jewel.

“A guitar,” I said back.

“I see that. Whose is it?”

“Mine.”

“How did you afford another guitar?”

“Somebody gave it to me.”

Dad’s eyelids tightened. “Who? That Jezz?”

Jezz’s family has money. Greenwood money, anyway. They have a bigger house. They take vacations by airplane instead of by minivan. Jezz has given me other stuff over the years. His clunky old laptop. Nikes that didn’t fit him quite right.

Dad has never liked those shoes.

“A journalist,” I said.

“Some journalist gave you a guitar.”

“He didn’t need it. He just ended up with it.” I held the handle of the silver case tighter. “He wanted somebody who actually plays to have it.”

Dad stared at the gleaming case for a second. Then he turned back to the TV screen. “I think you better find out if anyone has reported that guitar stolen,” he said slowly. “Seems like someone was trying to get rid of it.”

I grasped the handle so tight it hurt. I already couldn’t imagine losing that guitar. No way.

“That’s not it,” I told him.

Dad’s eyebrows rose and fell, like the tiniest shrug. He didn’t look at me. “Just sounds too good to be true.”

In that second what I really wanted to say was, What do you care? It doesn’t cost you anything either way. But I didn’t want to deal with the fallout. I just wanted to get down the hall to my room, shut the door, and play the new guitar.

So that’s what I did. I didn’t say anything else to Dad. I walked quietly away, holding the guitar tight.

Inside my own room, I sat down on the carpet beyond the end of my bed and unlatched the case. I’d almost expected it to disappear, like some magical dream, but the gorgeous Ibanez was still there. I lifted her into my lap.

The weight of her. The texture, the smell—it practically made me dizzy. I plugged into the amp, keeping the volume low as it could go, and played a couple of lines from an old Metallica song.

Each note sounded the way I’d only imagined notes sounding. The way they sounded when I heard them in my head. I played and played, until my fingertips burned and my eyes were starting to fog over, and I wanted never to stop.