“Jeremy’s roommate said that Sumit might have his laptop.” The man was breathing as if he’d been running. “We’re looking for his laptop.”

“Whose laptop?”

“Jeremy’s!”

“Are you okay? Why don’t you ask Jeremy?”

“Because he’s in a coma!”

Boyd did not expect this. “Oh my God, really?”

“Yes, really. I’m his father and I need his laptop. His laptop is where all his music is. Everything he’s composed since…” The man started coughing. No, crying. Trevor wanted to run. To his bed, out the door. Anywhere but here in the nucleus of what he’d done.

Boyd knocked on the door of the bedroom Sumit shared with their other suitemate, Corey. No answer; Boyd pushed the door open and disappeared inside. Jeremy’s father wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sighing heavily. He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. “It’s an Apple. Silver, I think. It was his graduation present. I can’t believe this. He was supposed to come help me with the gutters. I just thought he’d missed the train. And then I get a call in the middle of the night from the hospital.”

Boyd returned. “Sumit’s not in his bed, and I don’t see a laptop.”

“Do you know Jeremy?” asked the man.

“Not well,” said Boyd. Trevor let his answer be for both of them.

“He’s been meeting a lot of new people since the contest. Music industry people. I don’t know any of them. I know that’s normal. My dad didn’t know all my friends when I was his age. Jeremy always had different groups of friends. The jocks and the punks, you know. He liked everybody. He didn’t discriminate.”