sitting in the garage under a tarp ever since.
“It looks nice on you,” I said, and my voice did something strange in the middle.
He shrugged. But I saw his ears go a little pink.
Then I saw what was leaning against the wall by the front door.
The guitar case.
David’s guitar case. Black, scuffed, with a sticker from a gas station in Tennessee that David had always meant to peel off and never did.
There’s more to discover. Continue to the next page for the rest of this article.
