I pitched forward too quickly and hit the floor with a thud. My phone shot under my bed like someone had attached it to a cord for comedy’s sake. I snagged it and shut it off. Silence reverberated in my room without the nails-on-chalkboard squawk erupting from my phone. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I yawned and went through my routine.

Got dressed. Left a note saying I was sleeping over at Piper’s in case Mom came home early. Bundled up.

Every click and clank of my bike sounded like a thunderclap. I wasn’t even sneaking out. It wasn’t like my mom was upstairs.

I clipped my helmet and hopped on my bike. My bag tucked against my back, I set off down my street. A car met me at the top of the hill and my heart skipped a beat. But it wasn’t my mom’s gray sedan; it took the corners efficiently and sailed through intersections.

In the eighteen months or so I’d been sneaking out, I’d only been caught twice. The wind blasted my face, numbing my cheeks, but excitement drummed in my chest.

With one earbud in, I rode the nearly-silent street. The blocks got more compact and less sprawling. Winding roads shifted to straight ones that had been snapped down by a city planner. I flew past darkened store fronts. Liquor stores and pharmacies were the only things lit up.

I reached my destination: a nondescript stairwell with a green door at the bottom.

I hopped off my bike and grabbed the frame and handlebars, carrying it down the steps.

The door opened when I hit the last stair. A shadow fell over me.

“I was wondering if you were going to show tonight.” Freddy crossed his arms. His salt-and-pepper beard fell almost to his upper chest.

“Like you could get rid of me so easily.”

“If only I were so lucky.” He held the door for me, grabbing my bike with one hand and hanging it up on the wall rack he’d mounted for me like I’d handed over a pamphlet.

“You singing tonight or working?”

A lump lodged in my chest like a hot burning coal. He’d heard me sing before, back when my dad was alive. Every time he asked the question, and every time I wanted the answer to be singing, singing my fucking heart out like I used to, but I couldn’t. The notes lodged in my throat unless I was singing alone, and what good did that do for me when all I wanted to do was get up on stage and sing? I hadn’t sung in front of anyone since my dad died. Except for Dare. I hadn’t choked up like invisible fingers wrapped around my throat squeezing the air from my lungs when he watched me. I’d kept going, almost like I was unable to stop. But that was there, and this was here.

“Working.” That pit in my stomach came roaring back at the thought of playing in front of someone else. Well, another someone else. I’d already played in front of Dare and didn’t want to repeat that sensation. I swallowed down the lump in my throat.