navy hoodie, giving the man a quick nod—he tipped his drink my way, going back to playing on his phone.
Go. Don't think.
With one foot in front of the other, I entered the prison.
My steps sounded loud on the concrete, announcing me to the thick, glass-covered front desk. The process of signing my name, of explaining who I was and why I was there, was surreal. It turned out that the warden on patrol was a huge fan of my band. I put on a plastic grin and signed a CD for him—did he carry it with him everywhere? —before taking the visitor pass.
The warden guided me into the halls, pointing out where I wanted to go.
Where I needed to go.
Turning the corner, I stared at the grim rods of iron that held the prisoners at bay. My hands were clammy when I reached the one I was looking for. It was stone-colored, featureless as all the others.
On the bunk, a figure in orange shifted around. His haggard features moved to me, green eyes wide in true shock. Of course he wouldn't expect to see me. I'd never even bothered to send a letter.
My voice was a dry husk. “Hey there, Dad.”
****
Nine Years Ago
“Wow!” My face ached from grinning, but I didn't mind. Eagerly running my fingers down the length of the guitar neck, I spoke without looking away from the beautiful instrument. “Did you really make this for me, Dad? Holy shit, you didn't need to do that!”
“Watch your mouth,” my mother said, struggling to sound upset over her own glee. My parents were crushed together on the couch, hovering above me where I sat with my new gift; a guitar my dad had carved for me.
I caught him rolling his eyes. “Come on, honey. If he's going to be a famous rock star someday, swearing is just going to happen.”
“Well, when he becomes whatever, he can swear all he wants.” Pushing off the couch, she gathered up the shreds of wrapping paper. “Under this roof, he watches his mouth.” Moving my way, her scowl broke, lips puckering to press a quick kiss to my forehead. There was only joy in her eyes when she stood straight. “Happy birthday, Anthony.”
My dad hit me in the back of the head with a ball of wrapping paper. “Yeah, happy birthday, kid.”
Scratching at the back of my neck, I turned the guitar around. My father had always been a great guitarist, but he excelled at woodworking—a fact that I knew bothered him, even if he never flat out said it.
He cleared his throat. “Go on, strum a bit.”
“Ah, you know I'm not that good still.” My neck was hot at his coaxing. Singing was my passion, but I'd never turned away my dad's attempts at teaching me to play. It had to increase my chances at getting into a big band someday if I could do both, didn't it?
His eyes warmed. “Just a bit, for me. I worked hard on that.”
Smiling sideways, I set the instrument in my lap. It smelled of sawdust and polish, fresh enough to make me dizzy. Tweaking the pegs, my fingers were shaking. I wanted to impress him so badly. I'm already thirteen, I should be better than I am. All the hours of practice, of classes my parents scrimped to save for...
I should be better.
Moving my fingers like a wave, I began to play. My eyes were stuck on my movements, working so hard to make everything perfect. Each mistake screamed at me, gnawing into my teeth like cavities.
Better. I need to get better.
It was all I ever wanted.
Looking up, I spotted the sad smile on my father's face. Then it was gone, and I knew what he was going to ask before his lips started to move. “What's the most important thing you need to be a good guitarist?”
As I'd done a hundred times before, I shook my head.
His answer was always the same. “If you ever figure it out, let me in on the secret.”
I will, I thought determinedly. When I find out, I promise I'll tell you first.
****
Eight Years Ago
“Why doesn't he want to come?” Colton asked, twirling a drumstick lazily. He dropped it twice before I bothered to try speaking.
Looking up, I shrugged into my ears. “Mom says Dad's just really tired. I don't know, you'd think he'd want to see my first show.” It had taken Colton and myself weeks of work to feel ready to perform on our high school's stage.
Picking