had her camera out again, cupping it in her palm, clicking the shutter while some audience members took the stage. Like the rest of the milling crowd, they were a mix of working-class types: a woman in grunge flannel shouldering a Fender bass, a kid in a black T and work boots dropping a needle to cue a track, and a man in bib-overalls sliding into position behind a drum kit, testing the pedals: Whuuuump! Whuuuump! All of them looked as if they would have been right at home working in the warehouse. Perhaps some of the older ones had.
“Which one’s him?” I asked.
“Quicksilver? None of them. He doesn’t show till everyone’s playing.”
“He’s here somewhere?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Everything I’ve read claims he simply appears. The band starts playing, finds a groove, and then—”
The guitarist tapped his microphone. “How y’all doing tonight?”
Cheers.
“Ready to bring on Bobbie?”
More cheers, louder.
The guitar player glanced behind himself at the rest of the stage. “Looks like we still have a few positions available. Anyone for congas?”
The crowd shifted. Someone called a name. Then a woman in a postal uniform stepped forward, taking the stage to friendly applause.
The guitar man stepped aside, making room. “Good to see you, Shauna.”
“Good to be seen, Hank.” She gave each skin an easy slap—Thonk! Thunk!—then set her hands in place, ready to go.
Hank turned back toward the mic. “Y’all know how this works. You want to play, you come up. No need to ask. There’s room. Bobbie likes to keep it democratic.” He shifted his guitar, resting the body on his hip. It was a raggedy looking Telecaster, a vintage hollow body that might have been worth a fortune if its finish hadn’t been worn to bare wood around the pick guard. He tapped the strings, the contact registering as a crack from the amplifier. Then he swung his arm, brought it down hard on a power chord, and the band was off, thundering through the opening strains of something I knew but couldn’t place, an easy slice of classic rock—primal and catchy—but infiltrated with turntable scratch and sampled loops. A wave rippled through the crowd. People danced. I would have joined them, but Ariana held me tight, apparently unmoved by the music. “I’m going to try some video.” She still had the camera out, working it at her side. “Stay close.” She turned with me, panning the crowd.
“This is amazing,” I said.
“And it hasn’t even started.” She turned back toward the stage, angling closer, finding a vantage that offered a more-or-less unobstructed view. “Let’s hold up here. I want to be—”
A new sound emerged, riding the band’s rhythm as a figure appeared beside the guitar player. It crouched, hunkering low between the monitors. It looked small, disfigured, more troll than man. But that apparent trick of the light ended when he stood up and spread his arms. Spotlights converged, setting him aglow, his face like a flame in the crossing beams.
“That’s him!” I shouted, knowing it had to be.
Ariana tensed.
“That’s him, isn’t it?”
She squeezed my arm, nails digging in as Quicksilver continued singing in a voice so close and clear that it seemed to come from somewhere inside me. I shivered, listening, hanging on words that didn’t belong to anything the band was playing. Their music was predictable and familiar, wrapped around a three-chord jam that could have been “Johnny B. Goode” or “Going Up Country” or even “Spirit in the Sky”—but Quicksilver’s vocals gave it something new, a wild counterpoint that transcended sound and meaning. And now I was dancing, unable to resist, feeling the music until Quicksilver suddenly dropped back into a crouch between the monitors.
I realized Ariana was no longer with me.
I looked around, didn’t see her among the dancers, then turned back toward the stage where Quicksilver’s glowing eyes seemed to be tracking something, focused on movement near the back of the warehouse.
Following his line of sight, I turned to see a door swing open on a wedge of twilight. Was it Ariana? Was she leaving?
The music faltered as I pushed through the crowd. A mic fell, landed with a pop, then squealed with feedback before someone turned it off. The players cut out one by one as I reached the door and looked into the blue-gray evening. The music had stopped. Lightning flashed bright against the face of an incoming storm. Ariana was twenty feet away, stumbling between parked cars, heading for her bike.
I went after her, moving faster as she paused, set her hand