Jason was a creature of the road. Lara hated caging him up in a desk job, even if it was one that had him playing records like a teenager.

“I’ve got something new,” he said. “We were jamming a little in the bus. Lots of good vibes among the guys.”

“You didn’t just say vibes?” She put her hands on her face.

He put his finger up and picked up his Gibson. “We’ve been working on some stuff. I think this band is actually gelling.”

“The word gelling is only moderately better.” She grimaced pitifully.

Jason had wanted to form a new band and make another studio album. Although he denied it, she knew part of the reason he’d agreed to do the syndicated radio show was to find a new audience and catch the attention of a record studio. After his third album, there had been no request for a fourth. Ten years later, she knew it was still a sore subject.

Her father started with a few bars. It was a nice song. All of his songs were nice, but they had simple, straightforward melodies. They didn’t take on a layered edge until they were in the hands of a good producer. Lara had heard the tracks “before” and “after” a producer, and they were almost unrecognizable. While not the greatest balladwriter, Jason was a brilliant cover musician, so his live performances were usually four-to-five-song segues where each one blended seamlessly into the next. They weren’t the faithful reproductions of a less talented cover band. Jason took them to another level, weaving an overlay of a similar blues style through everything from Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Run Through the Jungle” and “Effigy” to the Beatles’ “Hey Jude.” Like a good mix, you could hear bits of the melody on cue, bleeding through the one he was singing.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” She twirled a pen between her fingers, her legs perched on her desk.

“Sure.” He continued strumming, working something out with the new arrangement.

Lara sprang up and grabbed the acoustic Fender—her favorite. “You didn’t backmask anything on the Tending album, did you?”

“No, why?”

“I didn’t think so,” she said, grabbing for the guitar and perching it on her knee, checking to see how out of tune it was and tightening the strings quickly. “There was just this weird thing that happened the other night with your album.”

He stopped strumming, the note fading until he quieted it with his finger and shot her a puzzled look.

“I decided to play ‘The One I Left Behind.’ As I was cuing it up, I heard a song.”

“You need to stop doing the late shift.” He laughed, stroking his beard. “You can hear lots of shit when you’re cuing a record in a studio. You know that.”