I have failed my oath to keep my bedroom neat, and it’s in its usual state of colorful chaos. Explosions of clothing, accessories, and art supplies are all over the floor and bed and pouring out of the drawers.

“How do you find anything?” Michael asks.

I burn with shame while at the same time trying to shove a bright pink bra under the bed with my toe. Please let him not have seen it. And please let there not be any dirty underpants lying around. I’m too scared to look.

“Well, you know me, extraordinarily talented,” I say, cheeks aflame.

He smiles tightly, and I feel like such a… child. I try to use sheer force of will to erase the blush from my face as I shoo him out of the room.

I sit down and grab the guitar, ready to move on from my embarrassment. Michael sits on the opposite couch, and I start to play him what I have so far. I’m stilted and nervous and all too aware that it’s not very good.

“It’s really good,” he says when I finish.

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it really is. It needs some work, but the bones are solid.”

He suggests minor changes to the lyrics and melody, but his biggest input comes in ways to improve my playing.

“No, not like that.” He comes to sit next to me to adjust my finger placement. As his confident fingers rearrange mine on the frets, my breathing becomes uneven.

He’s good at this, and his changes coax something deeper from the song. Make it something I can imagine letting others actually hear.

When I play through the finished version for the first time without any mistakes, I feel a thrill in my blood.

“Honor a Maker!” Michael says, and the thrill spreads warmly through me. That exclamation is what Makers say to offer congratulations for significant creative accomplishments. No one’s ever had reason to say it to me before.

Michael takes the guitar and begins absently plucking at the strings. All his frenetic energy vanishes as he plays with sure, steady hands. He starts to tell me about the first song he ever wrote, which he claims was “total chaff”—and it probably was considering it was called “Angel in the Sunrise”—but soon our conversation falls away as we both get pulled into the music.

Michael holds his guitar like an extension of his body. There’s a natural twang to the instrument, but he pulls a softness from it in a way I have yet to master. The notes string together into a yearning voice. His fingers break into a flurry of rushed movements, eliciting a thrumming sequence that amazes me in its complexity, made even more impressive by the fact that Michael’s not looking at the strings. He’s looking at me.