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most days until probably around six, so if you can wait until after we’re done, you can use the studio for practice.” I point at her. “Just make sure you shut everything down when you’re done.”
    She’s not done yet, though, I sense. “I was thinking…Oz is going to play the guitar for me. Since I suck. So he’ll be practicing with me.” She glances at me, nervous. “If that’s okay. With you. Please.”
    I’m a little surprised. “Oz? He plays guitar?”
    She nods. “Yeah. He’s really, really good.”
    “Huh. I wouldn’t have guessed. Judging by the T-shirt he was wearing, I would’ve thought he’d be more of a hard rock kind of guy.”
    She shrugs. “He is. But he’s going to try to play a few songs for me.” She gives me another hesitant glance. “Do you have an acoustic guitar he can borrow?”
    I sigh. “I guess. Just…it’s not that I don’t trust him, but…keep an eye out, okay? This stuff is expensive.”
    Kylie shoots me a dirty look. “Seriously, Dad? What’s he going to do, smuggle the mix board out in his pants? God.” She stands up. “I’d think you of all people would be less judge-y.”
    “I’m not judging him, hon. I’m just saying. You never really know a person.” I wonder if I should say something about them being alone down here. I decide to go for it, since I’m a dad and it’s my job to be suspicious of guys sniffing around my daughter. “One more thing, Ky. You’re down here to play music. That’s it, okay? You get me?”
    She blushes. “Dad. God. You’re so embarrassing. Yes, I get it. We’re just friends, okay?”
    The blush says she’s thought about it being otherwise, but I take her at face value. I rub her back. “I’m just doing my job as your dad.”
    “I know, I know.” She’s out the door and up the stairs before I can say anything else.  
    After another two takes, I’m happy with the cut, and the band packs up and troops upstairs. Nell, Kylie, and Oz are all in the kitchen, munching on hummus and pita. That’s a Becca thing. She’s got this recipe for hummus that’s heavy on the garlic. It’s addictive as hell, and she’s always bringing over giant Tupperware tubs of it for us, since we eat a metric shit-ton of it. Looks like Oz is chowing down, laughing at something Nell is saying. I watch him from the doorway to the basement. He’s a big kid, over six-four, lean and hard, with long auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, hidden under a backward Broncos hat. He’s wearing a pretty garish-looking T-shirt, some metal band logo, and a pair of old blue jeans, combat boots. There’s a biker jacket hanging over the back of one of the chairs, and it’s got all kinds of patches on it. I glance at his forearms, and my stomach seizes a little. He’s got scars. Not cut marks, but some kind of scarring. It doesn’t look accidental. There are circular marks, rows of them near his elbow. Intentional cigarette burns, maybe? I can’t tell from here. There are other marks, too, irregular patches of smooth, shiny skin, the edges twisted and crimped.  
    Oz notices me, follows my gaze, and immediately tugs the sleeves of a white long-sleeve shirt down to his wrists and shoves his hands in his pockets. His expression doesn’t shift, and he doesn’t look away, doesn’t act guilty, but he covered up nonetheless. My own experience—not to mention Nell’s—makes me suspicious. Worried.  
    The kids from The Harris Mountain Boys have trooped out of the house, and it’s the four of us in the kitchen. Should I say something to him? Not yet, I decide. Give him a chance. Maybe it wasn’t self-mutilation scars that I saw. I hope not, for Kylie’s sake. That shit ain’t no joke, and it’s not something I want my daughter caught up in. She’s gotta make her own choices, and I’ve got to let her, but I don’t have to like it if she gets involved in something so nasty as cutting or burning one’s self. I’ve been there. Nell’s been there.