“But here’s the thing,” said Ángel, putting his plate down so he could lean forward, gesturing as he spoke. “I don’t know this guy, the songwriter, or what it meant to him. Maybe he’s singing about something else. That’s just how I react to it. And songwriters do that on purpose, sí? He could just openly say, ‘This is a song about my relationship with my ex, and the car represents my, whatever, my loneliness.’ But instead, he made it a little obscure. So you can tell he’s sad and bitter, and you listen to it and put your own sad bitter experiences into it and think, ‘This song is about my relationship with my mother,’ or ‘This song is about, I don’t know, my cousin Enrique.’ Or my car, or whatever. It’s totally okay to not understand every reference—you’re not really supposed to. So long as you get the feeling.”

When he stopped talking, Oberon didn’t reply. But he seemed to be emitting a soft, subsonic vibration, more felt than heard. Ángel flushed; the skin on his arms erupted in goose bumps. “I mean, obviously you know all that.”

The almost-sound died away. “What other songs do you play?”

Ángel rubbed his chilled arms. “Um. The place I usually play is pretty laid-back. So nothing too loud, just background noise while people drink chardonnay. I do Cuban stuff. Folky stuff. I like Jason Isbell. Richard Shindell. I mix them with some Spanish guitar, and some songs everyone knows. James Taylor. Paul Simon.”

“I enjoyed listening to you play last night,” said Oberon.

The words were like a bucket of cold water dashed in Ángel’s face. The sandwich turned to cold lead in his stomach.

He was a professional musician. Playing for people was what he did. But he didn’t want to be eavesdropped on in his bedroom.

He stood up and began bussing their empty plates to the tray to take them back to the kitchen.

“Ángel,” said Oberon. “Why did you sleep under your bed?”

Ángel went still. Like a field mouse when a hawk’s shadow passes over.

When he didn’t answer, Oberon said, “I talked about it with Chandler. She said she thought it was because you were trying to avoid the camera. Is that right?”

Ángel carefully put the tray down. The cowardly part of him, the part that was afraid of a confrontation, wanted to politely deny that the surveillance bothered him.

Through lips stiff with anxiety, he said, “Yes. That’s right.”

“She said that you might think that the camera violates your privacy.”

“I do. It does.”