“He’s not eating very well.” She sighed, hands on hips. “He doesn’t have anyone but us, Ángel.”

“Okay. You’re right.”

“He likes sweet things. I made zucchini bread. Take him some, and make him eat it.”

Ángel took the tray with zucchini bread, butter, and tea, and went into Oberon’s office without knocking. He was surprised to hear issuing from the speakers a song he knew all too well: “Sunrise Love” by an indie country artist named Conner Marr.

The cups on the tray rattled a little—his hands were shaking. He set the tray down on Oberon’s desk to stop the clatter.

“Please tell me you’re not sending this song back to the Otherworld,” he said lightly, hiding his nervousness with a smile. He picked up a plate and sat down in one of the uncomfortable leather chairs.

“Don’t you like it?” asked Oberon.

“Not really.” Ángel nibbled a corner of zucchini bread, letting the familiar sound of Con’s voice warble through the excellent speakers. “Do you?”

The bread was sweet and moist, studded with walnuts. It was good, but it was hard to eat while he waited for Oberon to answer. He forced himself to swallow.

After a moment, Oberon said, “I like listening to you sing.”

“Hah, you read the liner notes,” guessed Ángel.

“Are you serious?” Ángel, incredulous, glanced up from his plate to Oberon’s impassive expression. “You’re telling me you recognized my voice from this?”

“Of course I did.”

Ángel licked crumbs off his thumb and cocked his head, listening closely to the song’s final chorus. Not only was Ángel’s backing harmony layered under Con’s rich, flexible baritone melody, but his part was distorted by the production, and he was singing in a breathy falsetto completely unlike his usual voice.

The song faded to silence and Ángel said, “That is fucking amazing, Oberon. Did you isolate the backing track?”

“I did, but I wouldn’t have bothered if I hadn’t known it was you,” said Oberon. “Why is it surprising? I hear your voice every day. You often sing while you’re doing other things.”

“This song buries me, though.” Ángel shook his head. “I doubt most people would even realize that there are backing vocals, much less recognize my voice.”

“You’re playing the guitar too.”

“Yep, that’s me on lead guitar. Con’s playing rhythm. Are you going to eat that?”

Oberon looked down at the zucchini bread on his plate. “All right.” Without noticeable enthusiasm, he began to eat.

Around another bite of bread, Ángel said, “That’s really impressive. I mean, guitar’s pretty individual, but I don’t think any human ears could have picked my voice out. I wouldn’t know that was me, and we must have sung it fifty-seven times to get this take. I was singing this song in my dreams for weeks.”