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time to get something ready.”
    I feel like I’ve been snowed. “Um. Okay. Nothing stupid, though.”
    She just laughs. “Trust me, Oz.”
    Yeah, see, that right there is not really my thing. People say that all the time— trust me —like it’s so easy. There’s one person in the whole world I trust, and that’s Mom. And even she doesn’t really have my full trust, because she’s lying to me and hiding the truth about my father. But other than that, she’s always been there for me. I’ve never starved, never been homeless. Well, except for that two weeks between when one lease ended and another began. We lived out of our truck for those two weeks, but it was okay because it was summer in Mississippi. Mom is my only family, and my only friend, and the one constant in my life.
    And Kylie’s saying trust me like it ain’t no thing. I almost laugh out loud.
    Maybe Kylie sees something in my expression. “I meant about the song, Oz. Trust me about the song.”
    I lift an eyebrow. “We’ll see, I guess.”  

FOUR: Warning Signs
    Colt

    The Harris Mountain Boys are good . Really good. They’re a folk-bluegrass trio: a stand-up bass, a banjo, and a fiddle. Gareth Fink, the banjo player, is incredible. I’m sitting in the booth, watching him pick so fast it’s inhuman. Buddy Helms on the bass is a solid presence, head bobbing forward as he thumps the rhythm, fingers slapping and walking across the strings. And then there’s Amy Irons on the fiddle. She’s a whiz, a whirlwind of frenetic energy. Their name is funny, a kind of thumb-of-the-nose to the established idea of a folk trio, since one of The Harris Mountain Boys is actually a girl, and a gorgeous one at that, but it works for them. Their lyrics are often humorous, tongue-in-cheek, often belying the insane amount of talent the three of them have. I found them busking on Broadway, and asked if they’d like to record a demo in my studio.  
    I remember busking, sitting on the street with my guitar, playing for the love of playing, sitting on a stool in some dive, no one paying attention. If I’d had a demo, I might’ve gotten somewhere faster. Which is a moot point, and I’m kinda glad it didn’t happen, because I probably wouldn’t have run into Nell on the street that day. But I can help these talented kids by letting them record a demo pro bono , just because everyone needs a kind gesture once in a while.  
    And then, once they got the demo down, they saved their bucks and managed to get it pressed into a hundred and fifty discs, which they promptly sold out of after only a handful of gigs. So I had Nell work up a loosely worded contract, basically just saying that if they want to accept a deal with an actual label, they need to let us know beforehand. And voila, Calloway Music LLC had a band signed on. We used our contacts around Nashville and places farther afield to get them a tour of the East Coast and select Southern cities, the bars and coffee shops where Nell and I started out and still play regularly, nearly twenty years later. The Harris Mountain Boys’ tour starts in January, right after the New Year, so we’ve got a couple months to get a full album down for them to tour with.  
    I hear the door from the basement stairs open into the studio, and I turn to see Kylie enter. She slumps into the chair beside me with the lazy grace of a teenager.  
    She watches the band play for a few minutes, and then turns to me. “Can I use your studio?”
    I shrug. “Sure, when we’re done. I wanna cut this last track, and then it’s all yours.” I turn my attention to the trio beyond the glass. “Good! Let’s try it one more time, except Amy and Gareth, you need to actually slow down just a hint.” I swivel back to my daughter. “What’re you up to?”
    She fidgets with a knob on the board. “Practice.”
    “For what?”
    “An open mic night at the college coffee shop.”
    I nod. “That’s cool. Yeah, sure. We’re gonna be in here