Back when Crackerjack Townhouse was new, we’d spend most of our practice sessions either jamming or playing cover songs, but eventually, we started writing our own music. Liam, Calvin, and I would build the base of the song, and then the horn players would come in and blow it all out into something really special. Jarrod’s words would be added last. He’s always had a knack for stringing a bunch of syllables together and making them sound like they were created to spread the very message he turned them into. We all play a part in piecing everything together, and watching a song come into existence is nothing short of magic.

Over the years, we’ve played a lot of live shows, made two albums of original music, and knocked out a few dozen extra songs that didn’t make the cut. But “Ecce Homo” and “Break It Out” are the songs we’ve always hoped would take us somewhere. They’re the ones we’ve wanted a recording exec to hear us play live for the past few years. And, at long last, one of them is going to get the chance to hear those songs. Tonight, at The Upstage.

As “Ecce Homo” blares out of my phone on the 61A, I have to take a second to catch myself. After all these years of making music together, I won’t be there for what might be the biggest night Crackerjack Townhouse has ever seen. I won’t be there because someone else needs me more than they do. No matter where Adam is, and what’s happening at The Upstage, I’ll need to be with Mr. Sinclair. Because if I’m not there, tomorrow—and every other day for the next three weeks—will be filled with misery beyond what any human should ever have to bear. It will bring eventual death, yes, but a seemingly endless parade of agony will come first. My promise to Ms. Sinclair has to be fulfilled tonight. If it isn’t, then I’ve lost everything that makes me, me.

Before the song can continue beyond the intro, I answer the phone, lifting it to my ear and saying a soft hello. When I look up, the man across the aisle is staring at me in disapproval, as if my ringtone didn’t play well with his sensible shoes and leather briefcase. He quickly looks away as Jarrod’s voice comes through the phone.

“Good morning, schweetheart,” he says in a whisper.

“Hey, Jar. What’s with the whispering?”

“Someone’s still asleep.”

“Grace?” I ask, hoping to hell it’s her and not some ankles-to-her-ears woman. I don’t want him to mess anything up.

“No, it’s not Grace.” My eyes close as I release a silent, disappointed exhale. “Your Mister is passed out on my couch,” he adds.

My eyes pop back open, and I lean forward in my seat. “What?”

“He called and asked me to go get a couple drinks with him last night. I guess I can handle my liquor a little better than he can because, next thing I know, I’m taking his stumbling ass home with me and prodding him to sleep on his side so he doesn’t choke on his own puke.”

“Really?”

“Yep. The man was shit-face drunk. He downed half a bottle of bourbon and bought like five rounds for the entire bar. Must be trying to spend some of his trust fund.”

That explains why Perry Devine couldn’t find him all night.

“Thanks for taking care of him.”

Jarrod doesn’t reply for a few seconds, and when he does, he sounds different. He’s still whispering, but there’s more sentiment behind his voice than there was before. “He told me he went over to see you last night. He said walking out of your apartment was the hardest thing he’s ever done.”

“The whole thing sucked.”

“He was a fucking wreck about it, in all honesty. I couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t know what was going on with you guys, so I told him everything I know about your deal with his dad. He didn’t seem all that surprised.”

“Well, he couldn’t have been too wrecked about it, or else he wouldn’t have walked away.”

“Yeah, but here’s the thing, Kace…he didn’t want to walk away. He believes what you told him, but he’s terrified of what else his father is willing to do if he stays with you and the man lives long enough to find out about it.”

My lungs deflate and my chin drops to my chest. I can’t believe what he’s saying.

“Adam told you all this?”

“Yeah, but like I said, he was pretty shit-faced. I’m not sure he’ll remember, but that’s definitely what he said. Sure seems to me like the guy’s trying to protect you.” My head is spinning. I can’t even think straight. “Do you know exactly when this is going to be over? I hope it’s soon. I really feel for the guy.”

I was going to call and tell him later, but I might as well tell him now. “You’re gonna need to get Stevie to play for me tonight.”

“What? Why? Jesus…wait…is it going to happen tonight?”

“Yes. And I need to be there.”

He sighs and pauses, obviously unhappy with what I’ve said. “We can’t play without you. Stevie needs to be on sax, not bass. You and I both know he’s a second-rate bassist. Come on, Kace. Don’t bail on us. You’ve worked too hard to jump ship on this show. The man’s gonna die whether you’re there or not.”

I can’t tell him that isn’t the truth.

“I’m sorry, Jarrod. You can be mad at me if you want, but just… Please don’t tell Adam we talked this morning, okay?”

Another long pause. “I can’t believe this.”

“With all the epic ass shaking going on tonight, no one’s even gonna notice I’m not there.”

“I will.”

I wonder if he can hear me smile.

“Will you call me tomorrow?” he adds. “Just to let me know you’re okay.”

If he were here now, on this bus, I would reach over and give him a big hug. “Yeah. Of course.”

“And you’ll let me know if you change your mind, right?”

“I won’t change my mind, Jar,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster. “Good luck tonight. And tell the guys I’m sorry, okay?”

“Okay.”

I hang up as soon as we say our goodbyes. My heart is heavy knowing Crackerjack Townhouse isn’t going to be quite as epic tonight, on the one night it matters the most. I might be shooting all of us in the foot by not being there. It sucks.

I pull Perry Devine’s business card out of my pocket.

Perry W. Devine, Head of Security

Sinclair & Associates

Seattle, Washington

I turn the card around over and over again, flipping it between my fingers until the bus arrives at my stop. As I walk the block to work, I send Perry Devine a single text message.

Adam is safe. He spent the night with a friend.

* * *

Pine Manor is quiet today, too quiet for a weekend. The weather is starting to change, and this time of year, it always seems like everyone tries to enjoy every last bit of sunshine they can get. Autumn is officially here, and for the first few weeks of the season, visitation is always down. People want to spend their weekends outside, instead of in a stuffy place like this. It’s a tough time of year for the residents. They know the holidays are coming in a few short months, and many of them won’t be able to be with their families. Some of them can’t leave the facility. Others don’t “get company” at the holidays because their families are too far away or they don’t seem to think they have the time to make a visit. It’s difficult to see.

Our social coordinator is always looking for extra resident activities this time of year, and today is no exception. After breakfast, we’re hosting a cookie-decorating contest in the community room with a local bakery. It’s a fun September tradition, and I spend my morning getting the residents ready by helping them put on aprons and wash their hands. Once everyone else is settled in the community room, I head back to Ms. Sinclair’s room to see if she wants to join the fun.

According to this morning’s shift change report, Ms. Sinclair had another rough night. She had a night terror and woke several of the residents with her screams. The nurse who filled out the report said it took them a long time to get her settled. Apparently Ms. Sinclair didn’t know where she was, and she thought the nurses were there to hurt her, instead of help her. She physically fought with them, and it was a struggle to get her to calm down. They didn’t get her back to bed until nearly five o’clock this morning.

My precariously pinned-together heart aches at the thought of her being so afraid and confused. I’m not sure my presence would’ve made a difference, but I wish I had been here last night to try to comfort her. I wish I could’ve held her hand and told her everything would be okay. I suspect her nights are going to become even more difficult over the coming weeks, even if Dr. Kopsey convinces Adam to up her medication yet again. They didn’t call him last night because Ms. Sinclair wasn’t injured, but protocol says Sue Campbell will be calling and telling Adam about the incident sometime this morning, if she hasn’t already.

As I walk back to Ms. Sinclair’s room, I think of Adam, hung-over and confused, and hope he finds some comfort knowing I’m here with her today, making sure she’s all right. It can’t be easy on him, being with his mother and father when I’m sure he’d rather be with his gram.

I hope when tomorrow comes, things will be different.

I open the door to Ms. Sinclair’s room to find her sound asleep in the bed. There’s a bright yellow tray of untouched breakfast on her bedside table, just like there was the morning after she fell for the first time. Only today, Adam isn’t sitting in her recliner with his index finger to his lips like he was that morning. He isn’t here, but his bouquet of daisies is. Their smiling faces are tucked into her green plastic water pitcher, offering their happiness and cheer. Just like a different bouquet of them did that morning, all those weeks ago.

I watch Ms. Sinclair sleep from my place in the doorway, her pale hands tucked together against the side of her face. Her breathing is shallow and rhythmic as I step into her room, letting the door close quietly behind me. I sit down on the edge of her bed, staring at her translucent skin and lightly sweeping the hair off her face with my index finger. I think of my daddy then, and how fragile he was at the end of his life. I think of him crying on the day he died. And how I wiped away his tears, humming Otis Redding into his ear. He handed me his wedding ring that night, even though he barely had enough strength to tug it off his finger. He put it in my hand and told me he loved me.

I wonder if Winston Sinclair has anything to give his child before he dies.

I wonder if he’d say I love you to Adam, if he could.

I tuck Ms. Sinclair’s blanket up against her chin and leave the room as quietly as I entered it.

On my way back to the cookie-filled community room, I stop in the break room and grab my phone from my bag. I send Adam a quick text. I think he might need to hear what I have to say.

I’ll take care of her. I promise.

A few short seconds pass before I get a reply.

I know.

It makes me smile.

* * *

The rest of the day passes in a blur. After she wakes up, Ms. Sinclair has a decent afternoon, spending most of it watching her birds from the lobby sofa. She’s pretty lucid, but the day is a busy one for me and we don’t have much time to talk. By the time the second shift arrives, Ms. Sinclair is back in her room, watching the cooking channel and sucking on a Starlight mint. I say goodbye to her on my way out, but I don’t tell her I’m going to see her son tonight. I don’t tell her anything other than goodbye and have a good night. Because there’s nothing else she needs to know.

On the bus ride to Latham Street, I carefully consider all the steps I’ll have to take tonight. I walk through every scenario, working through any possible glitches before they happen. Tonight, focus and caution will be as necessary as compassion and empathy and love. It’s different this time, because it’ll happen somewhere new. Somewhere far more public than Pine Manor. Somewhere I don’t belong.

After I find the man on Latham Street and get what I need, I take the 57B home. When I get to my apartment, I don’t take off my scrubs. I don’t even take off my shoes. I just sit down on my sofa and wait for night to come. I wait for visiting hours to end and for the bare bones of night-shift hospital workers to start replacing the second shift.

Even though I’m miles away from The Upstage when darkness comes, I see Crackerjack Townhouse on the stage. I see Jarrod standing at the mic, silent and still, filling the audience with want. I see them there, hundreds of people humming with expectation and alcohol as Bryson’s lips press into the trombone’s mouthpiece and Mark’s fingertips hover above the piano keys. I watch Jarrod’s chest fill with air, and a heartbeat later, I hear Crackerjack Townhouse strike its first note, crisp and brilliant, and I listen to it echo around the pulsating room like a buzzing bee, filled with sweetness and energy. I feel Stevie’s bass notes throbbing inside my chest, their slap and pop causing a lump to rise up into my throat.

The sound of funk infuses the air around me, vibrating through my gut and sending me its message of love as if I were there, on the stage with them. I see the audience in front of me, their hearts filled with poetic thumping, and more than anything, I wish I were there for real. I wish I were the one giving those mascara-laden lovelies the panty-dropping feels. I wish I were the one vibrating inside them.

And I wish my bed-headed swooner were there, too, watching it all.

Just after 11:00, I step out into the night and walk to the bus stop, the soles of my shoes scuffing the concrete in perfect time with the electronic hum of the streetlights and the song inside my head. The memory of Miriam Hansen’s words settles over me again. She said the next person to fill her room would bring me all the happiness I deserve. She said love would come, and it did. I only wish she would’ve warned me about how hard it would be to see it go.

The symphony of funk continues to flow through my arteries, just as it crackles through the air at The Upstage. I feel the beat jostle around inside of me as I walk into the doors of Penn Presbyterian a few minutes before midnight, each song coming and going in synchronization with the set list they’re using on the other side of the city. The volunteer at the lobby information desk nods at me, no doubt thinking I’m part of the crew of night shift employees now coming to work. I see a few of them walking through the lobby, purses and lunch bags slung over their shoulders, ID lanyards around their necks. Mine is flipped over so you can’t see the Pine Manor logo. You can only see my face smiling back at you.

As I walk toward the elevator, I pass the exact spot where I met Adam’s mother. When I step across the same mellow tan hospital floor that was once beneath her polished, pointy-toe beige pumps, the funk inside of me calms for a moment, settling to a dull roar and refining itself for a few measures. But the moment my finger meets the elevator button, it rushes back at me, full and loud and ceaseless.

It’s “Break It Out.” One more song until the end.

The elevator carries me up to the trauma ICU and closer to the raw, charred skin of Winston Sinclair. I walk down the corridor and through the double doors to find the desk in the waiting area vacant. This time, it’s just me and the magazine-filled end tables under the fluorescent lights. The sour, middle-aged woman with pudgy hands is at home, probably dreaming about some slick romance-novel hero coming to sweep her off her feet. I bend over her desk, looking for her self-worth-validating button; the one that opens the door. The paper with Perry Devine’s handwritten number is still taped next to the phone. When I see it, my stomach twists over on itself, sending more surging notes out into my blood. The bridge of “Break It Out” rushes through me, hot and quick, its contrasting key sharpening my senses and filling me with purpose. My hand shakes as I reach down and press the door release button tucked underneath the lip of the desk. I hear a hollow click and see the light on the wall switch from red to green.

Curtains are drawn across most of the glass windows as I walk silently down the corridor. I can’t see anyone inside the rooms, but I can sense their presence. I can feel their stories. The disinfectant-infused air is still, save for the occasional soft blip of a piece of medical equipment. I pass the large, central staff area where three women are busy looking back and forth between their computer screens and the various contents of manila file folders. None of them look up at me as I pass, but I know they see me. They must see me. How could they not.

I open the door—the one at the far left corner of the hallway—just as “Ecce Homo” begins. Jarrod’s voice shuttles a wave of emotion through me as the words come out of his mouth. They’re the same as always: self-serving yet self-deprecating. Cocky yet sardonic. Structured yet raw. It’s a funk song gone philosophical. And its message is more powerful than ever. The conceit of self-faith will always exist. “I am no man. I am dynamite,” will always be said, in seriousness rather than in song, inside the heads of people like Winston Sinclair. People who thrive on power and control, and who think their own importance belittles everyone else’s. Even the people they’re supposed to love.

But tonight, Mr. Sinclair cannot say those words. Or any other words, for that matter. Because he’s in the bed in front of me, medicated and powerless, his skin wrapped in gauze and a catheter funneling his manhood away right along with his piss.

The smell of greasy ointment sinks into my nostrils as Marquis’s trumpet blasts out a series of bright, staccato notes in time with Bryson’s trombone. More bass notes ripple through me. I walk across the room and sit down on the edge of Mr. Sinclair’s bed, the door drifting closed behind me. The stiff whoosh-and-hum of the respirator is gone; they must have removed it when he regained consciousness. There are only IV stands around him now, their bags half-filled with saline, antibiotics, and painkillers.

As I lift Mr. Sinclair’s arm and gently place it vein-side-up across my lap, I think of my daddy and what he taught me about death and all the pain that can go with it. If you’re not willing to stop it, the torture can be relentless, both inside and out. Nothing on this Earth should have to suffer before a foreseeable, inevitable death. Nothing. That’s why we’re born with empathy and understanding already inside. It’s a part of being human, and my daddy taught me not to be afraid of it.

He taught me that I always need to do the right thing. Every time. Even when it hurts.

My daddy taught me how to break a mourning dove’s neck when I was five years old. He’d take me and Charlie to the quarry where he worked, and we’d run around collecting the birds after he’d filled them with birdshot. Sometimes, they’d still be alive. They’d have a broken wing or a missing foot, and they’d look up at you with their shiny, round, black eyes. Like they were just waiting to die.

“If they’re still alive,” Daddy would say, “you’ve got to break their neck real quick. No use letting ’em suffer.”

He showed us how to put their downy heads into the crook of skin between our first two fingers and flip their bodies backward until we heard the bones snap.

“Flick ’em fast,” he’d say, “like the tongue on a snake.”

By the time I was eight years old, I’d probably taken more lives than a poacher on the African savannah. They were good, too, those doves. My momma knew how to cook them so they tasted just like chicken.

In fact, the day I was born, the doctor asked my momma about the last thing she ate before labor came on. When she told him it was a dove sandwich, she said he looked right back at her like she was some kind of wild sinner, fresh outta the bayou.

So here I am, twenty-four years after my illustrious dove-fueled birth, sitting on a mattress with another living thing in my hands, just waiting to die.

Only this time, it’s different.

Because this time, he’s already dead.