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The sensible thing would be to walk away and refuse to encourage him. Instead, I knock twice again.

“Too slow?” he calls through the wall.

I hesitate, then knock once. A few seconds later, something faster starts. I shake my head, smiling despite myself, and head back toward the kitchen.

For the next half hour, the system becomes surprisingly efficient. One knock means keep going. Two means change it. Three means absolutely not.

Then he starts playing a Hollow North song. I recognize it after a few chords, and my hand lifts toward the wall before I stop myself. For a second, I consider doing nothing at all.

Instead, I knock once. There’s the slightest pause before he keeps playing.

I finish cleaning the kitchen, take my sketchbook to the couch, and let the rest of the song carry through the wall.

Our neighbor war has apparently become interactive, and I’m not entirely sure when I started enjoying it, but I’m not asking him to stop.

Chapter eleven

ZANDER

Six months opening for Macklin Row changed a lot of things for Hollow North.

Before Europe, getting people to listen was the goal. Now people are actually waiting to hear what we do next, which turns out to be a completely different kind of pressure.

By noon, we’ve been in the rehearsal space for almost three hours, and the song still isn’t coming together the way we want it to.

“We’re overthinking this,” our drummer says after we stop halfway through another run.

“We’re supposed to think about it,” I tell him, setting my guitar pick on top of the amp. “That’s generally how writing works.”

“Not this much.”

He’s probably right, which doesn’t mean I have to like hearing it.

The song itself is good. The verses have been good for days, and the bridge finally came together yesterday. It’s the chorus that keeps bothering me. Every version sounds fine until I hear it with the rest of the song, then something feels wrong.

Too big. Too obvious. Too polished.

I’ve rewritten it so many times I’m starting to forget what I liked about the original.

Our bassist picks up his water bottle. “You might need to leave it alone for a while. We’ve been going over the same chorus all morning.”

He’s probably right, but I’m not ready to give up on it yet. “I know. I just feel like we’re close.”

“Then come back to it tomorrow with fresh ears. Right now, we’re all hearing the same thing too many times.”

I look down at the guitar in my hands, knowing that makes sense, then adjust my grip on the pick anyway. “Let’s run it once more.”

He gives me a look but sets his water bottle down and gets ready.

Touring with Macklin Row gave us the kind of momentum bands spend years trying to build. Bigger streaming numbers, more people following us, promoters returning calls faster than they used to. Nobody has said the next album has to prove we deserved any of it, but I can feel that idea hanging around every time I sit down to write.

The last album got us onto that tour.

This one has to show we belong after it.

By late afternoon, we call it. I head home with every intention of taking his advice and leaving the song alone.

That lasts until right after dinner.