And then the song came.

“Carrion.” It showed up in one piece. Melody, lyrics, drum line, all at once. It made my head ache, like my skull was too full, like the liquid around my brain was boiling. I scribbled the words and chords in an open notebook.

Then I picked up the guitar again. I played the song to myself.

My fingers felt faster than they had before. Stronger. More precise.

And that felt good. Really freaking good. It balanced out the boiling, out-of-control feeling in my head.

Okay, I thought. Okay.

Just to check, I picked up the acoustic guitar resting on its stand and played the new song again. The feeling didn’t change. It wasn’t just because of the Ibanez. I was playing more consciously, more perfectly, than I’d ever played.

Okay, I thought again.

So maybe this was normal.

Maybe this was how it worked for everybody. Maybe you practice and wish for something for years, and then, suddenly, all at once, it happens. Maybe it wasn’t as strange or huge or too good to be true as it felt.

That’s what I kept trying to tell myself.

That’s what I repeated when, in the days after that, the songs kept searing into my head and my fingers worked like perfect machines. It’s what I told myself a few weeks later, when I realized I could play faster than Flynn. It’s what I told myself when I jolted up at 2:00 a.m. to write three complete songs in a row.

I told myself that maybe, if I paid for these gifts by practicing like crazy, staying up half the night, working until my fingertips cracked, then it would all make sense. They wouldn’t really be gifts if I had earned them. They would be under my control. And I wouldn’t accept anything else until I felt like I had earned it, too. I wouldn’t take money from Ike Lawrence. I wouldn’t take too much praise for the songs. I wouldn’t notice the girls. Not really.

Not even Frankie Lynde.

I’d take it slow. I’d keep everything under control.

But I was just lying to myself.

I was given these things. The guitar. The skills. The songs. And everything that the music has brought me.

They were given to me.

So they can all be taken away.

Thea

On Monday they organize search parties.

Everyone from Greenwood High School signs up to help. Everyone but Anders.

No one expects him to join in. He’s been shut in his house for two days, not even coming to school.

This has let the gossip spread more quickly. The stories about Last Things breaking up are only drowned out by the stories about Frankie. At first the stories traveled in whispers, soft and sympathetic. Poor Anders. He must be brokenhearted, losing everything at once like that. He must feel so guilty, having that big fight with Frankie in front of everyone. Maybe she ran away to punish him. Maybe she hurt herself. By accident or not. But by the end of the school day, the whispers shifted. They grew louder. Larger. Maybe he knows something. Something no one else knows. Maybe he did something himself.