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“Tris,” Andrej said, as the song ended. “What are you doing?”

“What?” he asked, feeling uncertain.

“Your hand. You’ve never done that before.”

“What?”

“You’ve been covering your face the whole time. Sorry, but if anyone wants to be seen, it’s you. Take your hand down.”

Tristan placed the microphone back in the stand. He really didn’t have the nerve for such a discussion right now.

“Let it go,” José intervened.

For a moment, nothing happened. Everyone seemed to be waiting, but Tristan didn’t know what for. Andrej prompted him and gestured behind him.

“Your guitar.”

“What? No. Not now.”

“Yes.”

Confused, he retrieved his instrument, then spotted a song list hanging on the amplifier.

“Is that …?”

“The setlist, yes.”

“No. That’s not right.”

“Since when? We wrote it together.”

Yes, Andrej and he together. Back then, Tristan had been convinced he had found the right order. But now everything was different. It felt wrong, because everything had changed. An error had slipped in. Here, song titles were listed under each other, which essentially had no meaning, were no more than names, but still held the whole world together and served as a hiding place for the true content.

Tristan looked at Leaf, who stood by his amplifier, smoking and watching him attentively. Concern flashed in his eyes, along with the high from earlier when he disappeared to the restroom. Although Leaf and he had written almost all the songs together, he had always stayed out of these discussions.

“It’s wrong,” Tristan said as he slung the guitar over his shoulder.

“What? We’ve been discussing this all afternoon,” Andrej protested. “That’s the right order. There’s basically no other.”

When they both turned to José, he held up the sticks crossed like a crucifix and shook his head. “No. That’s always been your thing. I don’t interfere with that.”

Tristan adjusted the guitar strap on his shoulder, his gaze drifting to the setlist a few times. It completely captivated him and made everything around him disappear into a dense fog.

Like the goddamn Theses nailed to the door. Attached to the amp as if it were law.

“We need a new one.”

“Uh … Tris? Are you still with us?” Andrej sounded concerned.

Only then did Tristan notice his shortness of breath and a tingling sensation all over his body. But the list held him like a prisoner.

“Tris,” José spoke up. “Can we … I mean … Let’s just play through everything for now. Feel free to change the list if you want.”

Those words seeped through to him and brought him out of his stupor.

He knew he sometimes lost track. His foster parents had him tested for autism because of it, but apparently, he was perfectly normal—whatever that meant. He didn’t even know what sometimes went through his head when he moved outside of time and focused his concentration on just one thing. The band knew how to deal with it by now, and José brought him back to the present with his suggestion.

“Okay,” Tristan replied, dismissing his brief lapse as if it were nothing. He slung the guitar onto his back and took a sip of water. “We just need a new one,” he said, placing the bottle back next to the microphone stand. “So, now … ‘Yesterday’?” Tristan struck the first chord.