We followed Wyatt down a flight of stairs and into a long hallway that ran underneath the stage. He pointed out the bathrooms and showers, the band’s green room, and a separate room that said “CHRIS/PRIVATE” on the door. That room had a couch, a wall-mounted TV, and a minifridge filled with snacks and drinks.

Wyatt told us the catering was ready and took us to a large rec room where a copious buffet was set up.

Cal and I got in line and filled our plates with poached salmon, steak, mashed potatoes, and salad. I grabbed a beer, Cal grabbed a bottle of water, and we sat at a round table with the sound engineer, a British guy named Simon, who looked like a young Steven Spielberg and showed us pictures of his two miniature schnauzers while we ate.

After lunch we went back to Cal’s private room to hang out until it was time for him to soundcheck.

“I have something for you,” Cal said, rummaging through his duffle bag.

He pulled out a moleskin notebook and shuffled through it until he located a photo stuck between the pages. “Found it when I was in Brooklyn a couple weeks ago.” He handed me the photo. “In a box of stuff my mom saved from high school.”

It was the two of us, taken during an open mic performance at the old Sweetwater. Cal and I were sitting on stools, sort of turned toward each other, guitars in our laps and smiles on our faces. On the back, Terry had written: Blood Brothers July 1996.

For a moment I was transported back to that performance, to a time when Brooklyn was still a possibility and what could have been wasn’t as concrete as the cinderblock walls of the room we were in.

“Wonderwall,” I mumbled.

“Right! That was the night we played ‘Wonderwall’!”

“Bonnie Raitt was there. Remember?”

Cal nodded, smiling. “She told you that you played guitar like a boss, and your face was red for an hour.”

I felt like I was blushing again just thinking about it. “She was hot. I couldn’t even say thank you to her.”

“Yo, I saw her at the Whole Foods on Miller last year. She’s almost seventy, and she’s still hot.”

I sat on the couch and stared at the photo. “Jesus. We look like babies.”

“We were babies.” Cal grabbed a bottle of unopened whiskey from the minibar and sat down beside me. “I don’t normally imbibe before shows, but this is a special occasion.” He took a drink right from the bottle, handed it to me, and we passed it back and forth a few times.

“Harp,” he said, once we were both on the verge of being buzzed. “I need to say something to you.” He turned slightly toward me, and I dreaded whatever he was about to reveal. “I want you to know that I know I wouldn’t be playing here tonight if it wasn’t for you.”