Joy slipped through the side door and into a dimly lit hallway with four doors. One was open to a shoebox-size office, where she saw Dylan’s guitar. The second door led to a supply closet and the third door was an emergency exit. The fourth door was a restroom, and it was locked. From behind that door she heard someone roughly clearing his throat.

She lightly knocked. “Dylan? You in there?”

A toilet flushed, and a faucet ran. The door unlocked and swung open. Dylan brushed past her. “All yours,” he mumbled.

She watched him hoist the guitar strap over his head, then leave out the door she’d just come through.

Okay, that was weird. Though, in his defense, she was wearing black and blended into the darkness, and this hallway was the last place he’d expect to see her.

Joy slipped into the bathroom. Gah! The stench. She put a hand over her nose. The room smelled of fresh vomit and stale urine. She glanced at the locked door behind her.

“Dylan.” A dismayed murmur.

Why was he forcing himself to perform when it made him physically sick? He’d retched up his dinner of coffee.

She quickly used the toilet, then returned to the bar, letting the door slowly close behind her. She remained by the door. Dylan was onstage, this time standing at a microphone rather than perched on a stool. The spotlight reflected off the sheen of perspiration on his forehead. His hands shuddered. Eyes glazed, he stared vacantly over the leather, mute. The bearded, heavily inked audience grew rambunctious. They jeered. Their entertainment wasn’t entertaining. Joy watched the crowd with trepidation. They were getting out of hand fast, and Dylan didn’t seem to be registering the shift. He was too far inside his head, lost in paranoia.

Joy remembered Flagstaff, when Dylan spotted her in the audience. He had narrowed his focus on her and pulled himself together and sung. She didn’t hesitate. She walked to the center of the floor, directly in Dylan’s line of sight.

“Dylan.”

His head snapped in her direction and his gaze latched on to hers. For dear life. The phrase came to Joy’s mind. He looked desperate.

She smiled. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He spoke into the microphone. He then exhaled heavily and returned her smile. “That’s Joy, my friend,” he announced without taking his eyes off her. “And I’m Dylan. Dylan Westfield.”

Murmurs and gasps rippled through the Wagon Wheel and Dylan’s smile broadened. So did Joy’s, gaze hooked onto his. Sparks crackled; their connection charged.

“Yeah, that Westfield,” he acknowledged. “Jack was my dad. We might get to a few Westfield Brothers’ songs before the night’s over, but I thought I’d start with something more current.” He launched into a cover of Keith Urban’s “Hit the Ground Runnin’.”