It wasn’t particularly cold out, but it was chilly inside the truck, and we sat in the cab for a couple of minutes while it warmed up. There, Cal told me he was planning on recording a new album in the spring. He asked me if I would play on it.

“At the very least you have to play on the Portuguese song.”

I told him I would, and it became real as soon as I said it. Almost as if agreeing to play on Cal’s record was a premonition or a vision. Not only could I foresee it coming true, I knew for a fact it was going to happen.

A worn-out silence rested between us on the drive to the airport. Downtown Whitefish was dormant at that hour, but the streetlamps were so bright they gave one the impression of being on a soundstage, on the set of a movie that takes place in a small mountain town. Once we headed south on US 93, however, the giant cabochon sky sparkled with constellations all around us.

Cal rolled down his window, and the crisp air blew his hair back. He stuck his head out and marveled at the stars.

“Big sky country living up to its name,” he said.

Glacier Park International is about thirteen miles southeast of Sid’s property, and despite its overreaching tag, it’s a small municipal airport, the kind of place where you can still roll up to the curb, shut off your engine, and wait without being chased away by security.

I parked behind the only other car at the terminal, a dusty Subaru from which an older couple was pulling blue vinyl suitcases out of the hatchback. The woman was in a bathrobe and slippers, and I surmised she wasn’t the one traveling.

I shut off the engine and turned slightly to face Cal, feeling compelled to say things before he left.

“Listen . . .” I began.

But Cal threw up his hands and said, “Oh, no. Don’t get all sentimental on me now, Harp. I’m fucking knackered.”

I must have looked dejected, because Cal scoffed at me, but it wasa good-humored scoff, as if he found me amusing. “What?” he said. “I punched you, you wrote me a dope-as-fuck song. We’re square.”

I laughed unreasonably hard at that, and my stomach hurt from where Cal had landed the second punch. At the same time, I felt an overwhelming, plaintive rush of gratitude toward him, and to the loyalty he had to our friendship, our brotherhood. “Can I at least thank you for coming? Can I acknowledge that I owe you more than I could ever put into words?”

“Fine, fine. Consider it acknowledged.” He leaned on the dashboard, looked sideways at me. “Now tell me you’re going back, and my work here is done.”

I didn’t respond one way or the other, but right then I knew I would go. And Cal knew it too, because he said, “And then what?”