“What look is that?”

“Like you already know whatever it is you’re tryin’ to get one of us to say.”

“Can we get out of this fuckin’ cold already?” said Cobain.

I put the van in gear and drove back to the shelter.

“Sam doesn’t say much,” Morrison announced to the others.

“Ah, a quiet one,” said Entwistle, grinning.

Keith Moon shook his head. “Bloody birds of a feather.” And began to beat a tattoo against his legs.

Morrison leaned forward, resting his elbows, respectively, on the back of the Reverend’s seat and my own. “I gotta hand it to you two, you’re not freaking out like I expected. I—whoa, pull over.”

We did, and Jerry Garcia climbed in.

“Come see Uncle John’s band,” I muttered under my breath.

“I always hated that fuckin’ song,” said Garcia.

“Really?” asked Cobain. “That’s, like, one of my guilty-favorite tunes of all time.”

Garcia shrugged. “What’s it hurt to admit it now?”

Cobain thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “I see what you mean.”

“Hey, Nevermind was a great record,” said Garcia. “You were a great songwriter, my friend. Sloppy guitarist, but a great songwriter.”

“Thanks,” said Cobain. “I think.”

“You’re welcome,” said Garcia. “Maybe.”

I looked over at the Reverend. “If Ms. Holiday was right, Reverend, if you got some idea what’s going on, I’d sure appreciate being let in on the secret.”

It was Morrison who answered. “Hasn’t it crossed your mind to wonder how it is a van that’s designed to hold only eight people is holding almost twice that many right now?”

I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw an empty van reflected back at me. “I guess it’s because you’re all ghosts, right?”

Morrison laughed, as did everyone else. “Shit, no, Sam! Ghosts are, like, the spirits of real people who’re hanging around because they’ve got unfinished business.”

“Like that girl up there,” said Hendrix, pointing to a young woman crossing the street.

“Do we need to pick her up?” asked the Reverend.

Morrison shook his head. “No. She’s got nothing to do with this.”

I stared at her. “Who is she?”

“Roberta Martin,” said Garcia, Hendrix, and Buchanan simultaneously.

I put the van in park and turned to face them. “Who?”

“The greatest guitar player who ever lived,” said Morrison.

I shrugged. “I’ve never heard of her.”

“No reason you should have,” said Buchanan in his soft, soft voice. “She was killed by a drunk driver on her way to a gig in Noblesville, Indiana in 1982.”

“Girl was so good it was scary,” said Hendrix.

Garcia nodded. “You got that right.”

“Never recorded a demo for anyone,” said Buchanan. “She was only 22 when she died.”

“I was only 25,” said Tommy Bolin.

“Yeah,” replied Hendrix, “but it was your own fucking fault. By the way, I want my ring back.”

“This one?” said Bolin, holding up his hand. “My girlfriend gave it to me.”

“That was the same ring I was wearing when I died,” said Hendrix. “How the fuck she wound up with it, I don’t know.”