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“Think we can pull it all off?” I ask.

Blixem sighs, but Dunder nudges her nose against my hip as if she’s saying, “We’ve got this.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

My fingers sink into her thickening light gray coat. She and Blixem have put on a bit of weight in preparation for winter, and their coats are denser than they were this past spring. Unlike their first year at the farm, when they were mangy and underfed after they came to us as rescues, they’re healthy now.

I pull two small McIntosh apples from my pockets and offer one to each of the reindeer.

“Wish me luck.”

They munch happily as I walk away. Above me, the mockingbird sings our song, and I whistle back. It’s our thing now, this back-and-forth melody, and I hope Murray and I can come up with a similar give-and-take as we work on songs for his demo.

I show up at the studio a few minutes before nine so I can get everything set up. I pull open the curtains to let in some natural light and flip on a few of the ambient lamps scattered about the room.

It’s hard not to pace across the studio while I wait for him to show. I’m anxious and worried and excited and hopeful and about a million other feelings I can’t quite name. I’ve never been on a blind date before, but I imagine it feels a lot like this. Wondering if you and the other person will hit it off. Equal parts worried if they’ll like you and worried if they won’t.

I set out freshly sharpened pencils and empty notebooks and sheaves of blank sheet music. Will he want to start with the music or the lyrics or something else entirely? I think of my lyric book tucked carefully away on the shelf above my desk, wondering if I’ll be ready to use it again when this is all said and done.

After fifteen minutes of bouncing around the room, I decide to reorganize the percussion cabinet. Then I dust the mixing console and try my best not to keep checking the time every ten seconds. Eventually, thirty minutes pass and he’s still not here. A flame of irritation licks across my skin.

Surely he’ll come.

I sweep the floor and readjust the throw carpets, but Murray still hasn’t arrived by the time I’m finished.

I’m no longer sure he’s going to show. I watch the minute hand of the wall clock tick over to 10:00 a.m. and then sink into a chair like a deflated balloon, slowly releasing the anticipation and excitement that had been building up inside. I feel like an idiot, waiting around for someone who clearly doesn’t give a crap. Or maybe he does, and it’s me who’s the problem?

I switch off the lamps and close the curtains. Snuff out the smoldering embers of hope. I should have known when Barry called that the offer was too good to be true.

Track 8

Take a Pic (It’ll Last Longer)

Kash

November 3

Thankfully my headache’s gone when I roll out of bed at noon. The combination of a home-cooked meal and ibuprofen did the trick. I haven’t exactly been taking the best care of myself lately. I’m sure the added stress of my deadline and lack of sleep haven’t helped. Still, it’s been a few months since my last tension headache spell, so I thought I’d gotten past them. For it to happen now, well, the timing couldn’t be worse. Every day I don’t focus on writing music is wasted time. If I don’t get my ass in gear…

I grab the glass of water on the bedside stand and guzzle it down. It was ice cold when I set it there last night, before I crashed into bed. Thankfully, this is one of the most comfortable mattresses I’ve slept on in months. No wonder they call these things king beds, because when you wake up, you feel like a king.

I stretch and peel the thick blackout curtains away from the window. The brilliant fall sun casts everything in a soft golden hue, and I feel like I should be out apple picking or hiking or something seasonal and outdoorsy.

After a hot shower and a quick raid of the kitchen pantry, I’m ready to get on with the day. I suppose that means finding Paisley and introducing myself. Barry didn’t tell me much about her. Just that she’s about my age and writes music. Since she lives on the farm, it shouldn’t be too hard to track her down.

My boots scuff over the porch stairs. I take a moment to orient myself and then head around back to the studio. It’s locked up tight, but when I cup my hands and peer in through the narrow window next to the door, I see a cozy-looking room with plenty of equipment. I’ve never recorded myself—that was always Ryder’s thing—but it can’t be too hard to figure out, especially if it’s just me and my guitar.

When I reach a curve in the road, I hear an excited squeal and then what sounds like a group of boisterous children talking and giggling. Heading toward the noise, I follow a dirt path to the small red barn we passed on our way in.

A group of pint-sized humans is standing in front of a white-washed split-rail fence, holding their hands out toward the two fuzzy-antlered creatures inside. Are those…?

“Reindeer are ruminants,” says a good-looking girl about seventeen or eighteen years old. She’s standing in the corral with the reindeer, her attention focused on the kids lined up at the fence in front of her. Dark-washed jeans are tucked into the tops of her leather boots, and her emerald-green flannel shirt looks festive with the red-and-white cowboy hat she’s pulled down over her dark wavy hair.

This must be Paisley.

There’s something so familiar about her, but I can’t figure out how I know her. I’m not great with faces.

“Ruminants,” she repeats, enunciating the word carefully, “only eat things like plants. So, you don’t have to be afraid—they won’t eat you.” She gives a dimpled smile to a little boy holding an older woman’s hand. He gives a somber nod and lets out a giant sigh of relief.