Lights Will Guide You Home

AARON GEORGE was going to make a difference in Colton, California, law enforcement—but he obviously didn't plan to die trying.

He was safe, up to date, cognizant of working his people just enough to keep them interested and fed, but not so much that they burned out. Tough, compassionate, and funny.

All the things that had made him good to work with before they'd fallen down a hole in the world still held.

He and Larx had greeted Tad, April, Chris, and Laura with a barbecue by the pool at Olivia's house (apparently Aaron's house, but she rented), and Tad and April got to hold the baby, coo at the baby, and pet all the dogs to their hearts' content. They also got to swim under the dusty trees, and since swim season was not going to last in the mountains as long as it did down in Sacramento, they were grateful. April, Tad noticed, had bought a sort of long-sleeved swimming costume—something that hid the ravages of drug use on her arms but still flattered her slender frame—and she spent part of the day in shy, quiet conversation with Berto. Mostly, Tad thought, about dogs.

For his part, Tad spent the evening getting unsubtly grilled by Olivia about how Guthrie was doing. It was fun having a friend with the same hobbies, and Tad thought he and Guthrie could settle in here just fine.

But first Guthrie had to, goddamnit, get there.

"So," Aaron murmured two weeks after the barbecue, "you heard from him lately?"

Tad grunted and peered out the window of George's department issue, enjoying the interplay of dappled shadow and gold light against the green of the pine needles, the red-brown of the trunks, and the dazzling blue of the sky. They'd been taking turns on the schedule, partnering up with different deputies and taking different beats. George had spent part of his summer cleaning the department out of most of the people who'd sided with the faction who'd tried to take him and Sheriff Mills out when the whole "falling into the canyon" thing happened. The other deputies Chris and Tad had met had been a little undertrained—and a little resentful of outsiders—but not a lot. They'd mostly been hoping that the two new recruits wouldn't be "too Hollywood" and that Tad, at least, would be "Aaron's kind of gay." Tad had no idea what that meant, but he seemed to be fitting the bill, and he was grateful.

Today he was on a ride-along with Aaron, one of his last before he and Chris got to patrol together, which they'd do for a couple of months before patrolling alone when needed or with various partners. Aaron didn't want to break up a good team, he said, but he also wanted everybody to learn from each other.

Tad was grateful… and excited. It really was a different sort of police work. They'd given vagrants rides to a shelter by the freeway that had shuttles to bus stations and vouchers for temporary housing. They'd helped abused spouses either leave their abusers or, in one case, imprisoned the abuser for a good long time.

They'd broken up a meth house and relocated the denizens in a rehab facility in Auburn, with a voucher for the long-term facility April was helping to set up in Colton. They'd even, to Tad's amusement, been part of the local school campaign to knock on the doors of kids who'd had a lot of truancies the year before and talk to the parents about the beginning school year and what could be done to get kids to the classroom.

"I'm not sure how well this is gonna work," Aaron muttered, "but I promised Larx I'd do something after that kid went missing at graduation."

"Well, you do what you gotta to keep the peace," Tad said, which led to Aaron's unsubtle question about hearing from Guthrie.

"About five days ago his father dropped his phone into the gears of one of those electric recliners," Tad said in disgust. "He emails in the evening like he used to text, but you know…." He shrugged.

"Not great at communication?" Aaron asked.

"Well, it's like song lyrics," Tad ruminated, his foul mood about the whole thing coming to the surface again. "There are some great songs out there that evoke a whole host of images with just a few words, right?"

"Yeah," Aaron said. "I'm a closet Swiftie, you know, thanks to my daughters. Between the sound of the music and the meaning of the words, whole novels take place, right?"

"Yup," Tad said grimly. "Except you're never sure if, say, the novel you're reading and the novel I'm reading are the same. For example, why did Billy Joe McCallister jump off the Tallahatchie Bridge? Was his girlfriend pregnant? Did he have a crush on another boy—"

"Or girl," Aaron added dryly.

"Sure, in your world," Tad allowed graciously. "Or maybe people were just swimming and it was a thing, like in Massachusetts where everybody jumps off bridges. Maybe he wasn't dead , maybe he just impressed his friends because he did it, right? But you'll never know, because you've got all that great imagery but no discussion as to what it means ."

"Ah," Aaron said, but he said it soberly.

"Ah what?" Tad asked, wary.

"The filling in the gaps. You know, it happens even when you're in the same house. Life gets busy, something big goes down, and by the time shit settles and it processes, you're both in a slightly different place. You need some time to fill in the gaps. It'll happen."

"You sound very sure of yourself," Tad said sourly, although Chris had said almost the same thing.

Aaron laughed softly. "You're young," he said. "Have faith."

"If one more person tells me to—"

Aaron laughed some more, this time not so softly.

"Where are we going?" Tad asked, softening a little. For one thing, his relationship bullshit was not what this ride-along thing was about.

"This bar/sandwich place that just opened," Aaron told him. "Gonna give them a welcome to Colton and introduce ourselves and give them my personal card in case weird shit happens. From what I understand, it's supposed to be very grassroots hipster, with home-brewed IPAs. They've got the brewery set up in a building behind the bar itself. You'll see. Anyway, there's alcohol and there's food, and there needs to be a friendly relationship with the po-po so it keeps being the sort of place that attracts the people who stay at the local B and Bs instead of the Motel 6 in Truckee."

"You've got local B and Bs?" Tad asked, remembering the night he and Guthrie had spent in the hotel. April had been asked to sleep on the couch in Larx's house, which meant Tad could let go of one of the rooms, but he and Guthrie had spent a sexed-out, euphoric night on one of the worst mattresses Tad had ever experienced.

"Yeah, but they're more for the rich people who come up from the valley," Aaron apologized. "Trust me, Larx and I can't afford them either."

Tad nodded, and one more piece of his new job fell into place. Like a lot of places with tourist appeal, Colton could soon become a place with "summer and winter people" and "townies." That sort of place bred its own discontent, and now he knew what sort of tensions to look out for.

"Understood," he said. "Bodega Bay had that sort of population."

"Tourist and local?"

"Yeah." Tad nodded, thinking bemusedly how sometimes the world spun you right where you belonged.

Caprica—the new bar—turned out to be a nice place. Like Aaron said, hipster, with polished stone floors and a menu that went with a few items, most of them with tags like "organic" and "grass fed" and "free range," but a few appetizers that ran along the fried cheese, mushroom, or zucchini varietals. The people behind the bar were tatted and pierced; the girls had short hair, and the guys had manbuns, and generally, Tad enjoyed the vibe immensely. There was a live-music setup in the corner, although since it was afternoon—and a nice afternoon with great barn-style doors open to the sunshine both in the front and the back, the latter of which led to the brewery—they had music playing over a sound system barely loud enough to hear.

"Huh," Tad said as they walked up to the bar.

"What?" Aaron glanced at him, after getting the attention of the man who appeared to be in charge. A tall, thin young man with a ring in his nose and one in his septum, he had what appeared to be stands of pine trees riding up his forearms, front and back, including his wrists, waved at them and finished his transaction with a young woman who looked like she was taking a break from a retail job and had eaten lunch at the bar.

"Fiddler and the Crabs," Tad said, smiling.

"You like them?" the young man said, striding forward. "They're sort of a hidden gem, you know? Like Blind Blake to the blues, or Tesla to hair bands."

"I'm biased," Tad said apologetically, and then, taking his cue from who he was with, he told the truth. "I'm dating their drummer."

"Oh wow !" the bartender said. "Guthrie Woodson? You know him? That's awesome! Do you think you could get him to come up and play?"

"Well, he's cutting another album with Seth Arnold in the next couple weeks," Tad said, not able to keep the pride from his voice, "but after that he's moving up here. I'll have him stop by. I know he loves to perform live."

"Oh my God! Chiana!" He turned to a shorter young woman with buzz-cut bleached hair, an impressively muscled physique, and cascades of flowers on her bare shoulders, biceps, and forearms. "Did you hear that? Guthrie Woodson is moving here—"

"And he's cutting a new album with Seth Arnold!" the woman squeed. "Oh my God! Could you introduce us! Could you? Because that would be amazing . Oh wow. Corbin and I are, like, the biggest fans, right, Cor? You just made our month !"

Tad and Aaron laughed, and Aaron was the one who took over the conversation. "As soon as the boy's up here and settled, you'll be the first folks on our agenda," he said, tipping his hat. "But in the meantime, let me introduce us. I'm your local sheriff—there's a special election in a couple of weeks. I'm running unopposed, but I do appreciate a vote of confidence—but mostly I'd like you to know us by sight. This is Deputy Tad Hawkins, and since you're a new business, and one that has alcohol, we wanted you to feel free to call us if things get out of hand. We don't arrest people who don't deserve it, but we want folks to feel safe in your establishment." He winked. "You set up a real nice tone here, and my husband and I are looking forward to someplace to go besides the burger place and the pizza place. We want you to feel like we're your friends and not someone you have to be afraid of, right?"

"So nice to meet you, Sheriff," Chiana said, wiping her hands off so she could shake theirs. Corbin followed suit, and the two of them offered a free appetizer their chef was trying out, on the house.

"I'd be happy to pay for that, ma'am," Aaron said, and Tad liked the way he did that without sounding stuffy, while still maintaining propriety. "But yes, some food would certainly sit well. We're both meat eaters, so hit us with your best shot."

They sat and shared their sandwiches and steak frites, trying different sauces and generally enjoying the food while Corbin and Chiana took turns visiting their table and talking about the plans they had for the brewery and how they'd like to institute line dancing on the concrete apron between the brewery and the restaurant and generally making their business feel like a friendly place.

They finally left, and Tad polished off the last of the steak frites and gave a happy sigh.

"This is a good place," he said, gazing out into the sunshine. "We could be happy here."

At that moment, his pocket buzzed and he fished out his phone, his breath catching as he read the message from a strange number.

Jock gave me a cell phone as a goodbye present. May have to return in a couple of weeks and after Christmas. Only if you can come with.

I'm heading for the city—recording starts tomorrow.

So glad to be texting again—emailing is SO boring.

Miss you so much I don't know how I'll sing. Hard to sing if you can't breathe.

Say hi to Livvy and April for me, okay?

Reply when you can. I'll have service for days in a few, but no time.

Love you—G

He stared at the phone, his eyes wide and shiny as he read the message again and again and again.

Like a song he put the things together. Guthrie's father must have died in the past couple of days. Jock had done a great big thing, finding the money for the phone. Guthrie would be returning for Jock. Tad was the first person he texted. He planned to drive himself hard so the recording could be finished soon.

Guthrie missed Tad so much he couldn't breathe.

Tad bit his lip and rubbed his thumbs over them again.

"That him?" Aaron hazarded, breaking into his thoughts.

"Yeah," Tad murmured.

"What's he say?"

"He loves me." Tad stared up at him, shiny, overfull eyes and all, and smiled.

GUTHRIE PUT almost the last of his money in the parking meter three blocks from the hotel—enough for six hours, when he could ask Seth and Kelly if they knew where he could park the truck during the recording session that wouldn't cost an arm and a leg.

He was asleep in the front, leaning against the passenger's side window with one of his blankets folded up behind his head like a pillow when there was a hard knock on the window.

Guthrie groaned and leaned forward, his patter ready on his lips even as he rolled down the window. "Sorry, Officer, I've paid the meter, as you can see, and I'm just waiting for some friends from the airport—oh my God!"

"Guthrie!" Seth said, waving madly in spite of the fact he and Kelly were standing right there next to the truck. "What are you doing there? Why didn't you go park at the hotel? Oh my God, have you eaten?"

Guthrie grimaced. This was the delicate part. "Well, you know, valet parking and all. I didn't know where our rooms were—"

"And you couldn't pay the valet price or the food price," Kelly said astutely.

Guthrie grimaced. "And I'm pretty much on my last two hundred bucks," he admitted, "and I was hoping that was the gas to get me home."

Seth's eyes lightened with understanding—but not pity. One of the things that had drawn Guthrie to both Seth and Kelly was that they'd both been there.

"How did you find me?" Guthrie asked before they could say anything. "I mean—"

"We were just shaking off the trip," Kelly said, wiggling his short but powerful body. "And then we saw this piece of shit and thought, ‘Naw, that couldn't possibly be him!'"

Guthrie snorted. "Of course it could," he said dryly.

"Tell you what," Seth said. "Kelly and I will drive with you to put the truck in valet and clear out all your stuff, and I'll arrange for the recording company to pay the ticket, and after I get you checked in, we'll eat on the company dime for lunch."

"Ooh," Guthrie said, appreciating Seth's strategy. "Who's all mister practical now?"

Kelly rolled his eyes. "He knows how to live on the company dime, believe me," he said. "But part of that is the company is always stupid excited about paying for him." Kelly's smile was all pride. "I'm pretty excited about not having to pay San Francisco prices, and no amount of ‘Oh, but we'll buy your tuxedo and pay for your town car' is going to cure me of that."

Guthrie chuckled and scooted over, opening the cab so they could both scoot in and he could drive to the hotel. "They pay for your town car?" he asked, legitimately impressed.

"It's amazing ," Kelly said, ignoring Seth's blush. "It's like he's avoided getting a driver's license his entire life so the symphony could feel all badass by getting him a car. We both nod our heads like, ‘Yeah, okay, sure,' like town cars were even a thing when we were growing up. I mean, until we went back East, the best thing I ever rode in was Seth's dad's restored caddy."

"It's sweet," Seth said, and Guthrie laughed some more, because Seth said that with all sincerity when the caddy was probably the only vehicle Seth knew from the entire fleet of cars on the road.

But that was Seth and Kelly, and Guthrie relaxed into their company as he pulled around the block and into the hotel's valet parking. As he grabbed his guitar and his knapsack with his computer—and Seth and Kelly took his drum set—and he realized this was really all he owned in the world besides the truck, he tried to take the lessons Seth and Kelly had learned in stride. Nobody but Guthrie had to know he had two hundred dollars in the bank, maybe , and the only people who did know would love him for who he was anyway.

TWO WEEKS later, he, Vince, Amara, and Seth sat in the studio and listened to the final notes of the final song fade plaintively away into the silence, and then everybody—Seth's agent, Adele, their sound engineers, the grips who'd helped arrange and care for the instruments— everybody —took a deep, shuddering breath before erupting into applause.

"My God," Adele said through a suspiciously tight throat. "I can't… I can't even believe what you kids did here. Did you hear that?"

"Yeah, baby," Vince said, low-fiving Kelly, who had stayed in the engineering booth through the entire process, probably picking up pointers through osmosis. "You bet your ass we did."

Guthrie, it appeared, was the only one nervous about the album. "Are you sure?" he asked again. "That was an awful lot of… you know. Me on that album." In fact, six of the ten arrangements were penned by Guthrie Woodson. Adele had been breaking her back trying to write and rewrite the contract, making sure particularly that Guthrie would be on the receiving end of bonuses if any of his songs broke big.

"Oh baby," Adele said, her throaty smoker's rasp a comfort. "You're going to break that album wide open. ‘Road Like a Ribbon' is going to go nationwide, you have no idea. This is going to be…." She held her hands to her chest. "Wow. This must be what Travis Ford felt like when Outbreak Monkey cut their second album. I might even be in a place to call him and ask. You… guys, this… this is gonna be huge ."

Guthrie smiled weakly, overwhelmed. "I'm… I don't know what to do with huge," he whispered. The last two weeks had been, as he'd suspected, a sleepless whirlwind. The band—they'd decided to rename it the Hot Crustaceans—had practiced, jammed, fiddled, tweaked, and delivered on that tipsy Christmas promise to make music together they could be proud of, and to enjoy the hell out of each other while they did it. Guthrie had called that first text to Tad pretty much right. He hadn't had much time to eat, much time to breathe , once the band hit the studio. One of the things the four of them had in common besides their young college years together was an absolute work ethic. For every one of them, the final decision was "What's best for the song."

Nine times out of ten, the answer had been "More Guthrie."

Guthrie, caught up in the tide of creativity and excitement, hadn't thought to contradict his friends until now, when he realized what "More Guthrie" might mean.

But now, in the breathless hush following what Guthrie had to admit had been an extraordinary musical experience, it was starting to seep in.

Adele approached him gently, which was probably why she was Seth's agent, because she could do things like that. "Baby," she said softly, "we send the rough cuts to the executives digitally this afternoon. Tomorrow morning, before you check out, I should have your signature on the final contract. The money should hit your bank account in a week." She glanced around at all of them. "That's not just for him, you know. This is gonna be some serious green. And I know none of you are stupid—you've all been responsible with your pay so far, so you won't let me down now—but I'm saying." She smiled gently at Amara. "This could be ‘taking a year off to have a baby' money."

Amara held her hand to her mouth and looked desperately at Vince, who nodded.

"This could be ‘get your sisters an apartment of their own' money," she said, eyeballing Seth and Kelly. Then she turned that tender attention back on Guthrie. "And you. I've only known you for a couple of weeks, but I already know what your dreams are. You and your guy, you can live a quiet life while you perform at the local tavern, and every time you get a wild hair, this album is going to be your ticket to making any music you want. This money here—you spend it wisely and this is freedom money, Guthrie. And I'll help you with whatever you need. But right now, you all deserve a night on the town at some place we need to buy Guthrie a tie to eat at. You need good wine and sparkling chandeliers and some goddamned happy, 'cause every damned one of you deserves it. How's that?"

The engineers and production crew had to make the cheers, because the musicians were all busy staring at each other in wonder and trying not to cry.

AT DAWN'S buttcrack the next morning, they all met in Seth and Kelly's suite, Guthrie with all his stuff ready to take down to his truck, as they signed the final contracts. Guthrie's bonuses made spots dance in front of his eyes, and he thought he should send Jock a riding mower as soon as the check cleared.

It was everything he ever wanted; except the one thing he really wanted was four hours away, waiting on his call.

"This should clear in the next three days," Adele said seriously. "I wish I could make it right now , kid, 'cause from the looks of you, I don't know how you're going to get that death trap of yours up to Colton, but three days is as soon as I can get." He felt a pressure on his back pocket then, which felt like a grope but couldn't possibly be, because Adele had integrity like a rock. As she turned to embrace Seth, Kelly, and the others, Guthrie put his hand in his back pocket and pulled out three hundred dollars, with a Post-it on top.

Don't argue—let me get you home.

By the time he could even think to argue, they were all trooping to the elevators, Kelly manning the luggage rack because—his words—he didn't trust all the music geniuses not to spill their instruments all over the hotel.

When the valet arrived with his truck—embarrassingly loud, and oh God, was it belching black smoke now?—they all helped him load it up before they called for their town car: Vince and Amara for the airport, Seth and Kelly to go meet their family, gathered in Sacramento for the occasion. Kelly and Seth hugged him tight—so tight—and Seth whispered, "Please, Guthrie, go be happy. For us."

"For me too," Guthrie said, pulling away, and Kelly grinned.

"That's what I like to hear. Now go before your truck just up and fucking dies."

It was as good an exit line as any.

SADLY, THE truck barely made it back to San Rafael before it—Kelly's words—up and fucking died. There he was, cruising along the freeway, when the unsubtle bwa-bap-bap-bap-bap-bap that had started on his way to Sand Cut from Colton grew louder.

Home , his brain was shouting, Home! Holy shit, Guthrie, he's waiting for you. You haven't seen him in nearly six goddamned weeks. You've barely talked to him, texted him, known him, but you are scant hours from home, and you can't stop. Can't stop. Can't stop. Can't— fuck !

That last brap ! had been so loud it shook the windows, and suddenly the car was losing power.

Oddly enough, Guthrie's luck seemed to be turning for the better because the final gasp—slowing to twenty miles an hour, belching black smoke, backfiring, the whole nine yards—began about four miles from Eugene C. Calhoun's auto dealership. According to Guthrie's phone, he pulled up to the service bay about fifteen minutes after the repair guys arrived and forty-five minutes before Eugene C. Calhoun himself.

The truck sputtered, backfired, and quit, leaving Guthrie to stand up on the brake and wrench his shoulders on the defunct power steering to get it to coast into position as the mechanics stared in surprise.

"Oh, Guthrie," said the head mechanic as Guthrie tumbled out of the heat-clicking vehicle. "It's great to see you, man, but I know that sound. The only thing to do for this thing is hold a funeral."

Guthrie's heart was thundering in his throat. Home! Tell this asshole you need to get HOME!

"Take a look, would ya?" Guthrie begged, and at that minute, Martin came trotting out of the office, a genuine smile on his face as he pulled Guthrie into a bro hug.

"Guthrie! My dude! What's up?" His nose wrinkled as the black smoke hit him, and he took one look at Guthrie's truck and grimaced. "Oh man. She's dead, isn't she?"

Guthrie sighed and tried not to cry. He and the band hadn't slept in two weeks—and it had been great! Felt like living on music! But now, with home so damned close he almost couldn't breathe, he wasn't sure he had enough sleep to pull it together.

"I am three days from having enough money to buy a brand-new truck," he muttered. "Three goddamned days. Shit !"

Martin surveyed the dead Colorado with a now-practiced eye. "How much do you have?" he asked. "Because I can give you $800 in trade for that thing. There's a used truck in the back—just came in. Calhoun hasn't seen it. He'd never know you bought it. Only problem is, we need more than the trade-in for a down payment." He grimaced. "You know the drill, but I can get it for you under blue book."

Guthrie smiled at him, focusing for the first time on the young man who had apparently blossomed since Guthrie had walked out nearly three months ago.

"You selling cars on the floor now?" he asked, impressed.

Martin shook his head, blushing like the kid Guthrie had known. "Naw, but one of the new salesmen doesn't know his dick from a hole in the ground. I'd put it under his name and do the paperwork myself. He won't get much of a commission, but the sale will show up and make him look good. He won't argue."

Guthrie gnawed his lip, thinking of the money in his back pocket and knowing it wasn't enough. He could take a bus? But what would he do with his stuff? The thought of calling Tad and having him come down to bail Guthrie out one more time didn't sit with him. He had his pride, god damned if he didn't, cash in his back pocket notwithstanding.

God. Three days. Three days . The thought of puttering down here in San Rafael while he waited for the check to clear made his head hurt, but that might have been the lack of sleep and, well, the whole last month and a half catching up to him. He couldn't think .

His pocket buzzed, and automatically he pulled it out, surprised and pleased to see Olivia's text.

Tad said you're almost done with the album. WHEN ARE YOU COMING HOME?

And maybe because he was tired and maybe because he was in the moment with his beloved truck's carcass still trickling smoke in front of him—maybe because he'd seen this woman vulnerable and emotional and she'd trusted him with that time. And maybe because he wanted to see Tad so goddamned bad his chest hurt, and all that guardedness that had kept him alive for so long didn't seem to serve a purpose anymore because the people he loved could see right through it. Hell, people he hadn't known three weeks ago were shoving money in his pockets to see him through to when his ship came in. How much pride could he have?

Maybe it was all of it, but suddenly he could admit that he needed to see his lover, and he needed to talk to his friend, and he needed the downpayment for another goddamned truck.

Workin' on it, darlin' , he typed.

Her response was immediate. Working on it how?

Having a little bit of car trouble.

His phone buzzed in his hand.

"It died, didn't it?" Olivia asked.

He grunted, the words paining him a lot more than his own father's death, truth be told. "Like a shot horse," he said, staring with mournful eyes at the poor old dinged-up machine with the primered quarter panels and the egg crate in the flat bed.

"Where are you? It doesn't sound like you're on the side of the road, so maybe you can be trusted with your safety, but you're not here , so I need to know."

"I'm at my old job," Guthrie said. "I got a friend here who can sell me a used truck at a loss. It's just…." Oh, this hurt. "Three days, Livvy. More money than I've ever seen in my life hits my bank account in three days , and in the meantime, I'm looking at buying a bus ticket and renting a locker for my shit—"

"You can stash your shit at my place!" Martin said indignantly, overhearing, at the same time Olivia said, "Oh bullshit. You've got two choices. One is hang in there while I get Elton to go pick you up—he's in town going shopping, but he could be there in three hours." She grunted. "I'd go down with you, but—" In the background, not too far away, he heard a whimper and a grunting noise, and his cheeks heated as he realized she was probably nursing that baby as they spoke . "Every two hours. Like clockwork. And she eats like a horse . It would turn a six-hour trip into a ten-hour trip, and that would make everybody batshit."

Oh God. She and Elton, probably working at a sleep loss. A three-hour trip was nothing… unless you had a newborn baby at home.

"Livvy, don't be dense," he said. "You guys need your sleep and your gas money and your peace. You're not coming down here to get me―"

"How much do you need for the down payment?" she asked brusquely.

He was so surprised he blurted the amount, but he added, "But I haven't even seen the truck!"

"Is this your friend from the dealership? You think he's being square?"

Guthrie grimaced because he'd hit Speaker since they were in the auto bay, and it was hard to hear, and Martin had heard that, but the kid rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, Livvy. I trust him, but I don't know if the truck is going to last me—"

"Well, it doesn't have to go for ten years, does it?" she asked acerbically. "It just has to get you here and jockey you around until you get your feet under you. You worked there. Is it a good price?"

"It's a steal," he said frankly. "Hell, it'd be a steal for my dead truck, but if this thing runs―"

"Purrs like a kitten," Martin confirmed. "I was in the service bay when they did the checkup." He gave a sweet little smile. "I know it's hard to believe this at a new-and-used car lot, but I wouldn't do you wrong. You, uh…." His abashed look was 100 percent genuine. "You, uh, gave me the confidence to ask Tracy out, you know? I owe you, brother."

"You're dating?" Guthrie asked, honestly pleased. "That's sweet to hear."

" Guthrie !" Olivia snapped on the other end of the phone, and Guthrie remembered what he was doing. "Go check out the truck. Me and Elton have some leftover funds from the insurance settlement on the Kia―"

Oh shit. "Livvy, I can't take that—"

"Three days?" she said, and with a cold shiver he saw all those zeroes heading into his bank account. All those promises.

"What if something goes wrong?" he babbled, suddenly afraid. "What if the banks go belly up, or Seth's studio suddenly hates the album? What if Seth's agent rethinks this entire thing and decides I should be paid like a studio musician? What if the album flops and they want all the money back—"

"Guthrie," Olivia said softly, "stop. You signed a contract. The money is being transferred. That's what you said, right?"

"Yeah," Guthrie said through a dry throat. Until all that had come bursting out of him, he hadn't realized how terrified he was of having everything , Tad included, yanked away from him, the goalposts moved one more time, his life locked in flux like some living ghost's as he moved from gig to gig without a home.

He'd never realized how much more he wanted than that until right now .

Suddenly "just enduring," his signature move, was not enough.

"Honey," she said, "even if it all got bolluxed up, you still need a vehicle to get up here and fix it. Go take a test drive and let me talk to your moneyman, and we'll see what we can do."

"Here," Martin said, taking the new phone from him carefully. "I heard that. Olivia?"

"Hiya!"

"I've heard a lot about you, darlin'," he said, and Guthrie dimly realized Martin had gotten that word from Guthrie himself. "How's that baby?"

"Chowing away," came Olivia's voice, tinny now with the little bit of distance. "Let's discuss how I'm about to throw away my money on a friend."

Martin winked at Guthrie. "You and I both know he's good for it," he said. "You at a computer?"

"Yup!"

"Well send me your info, let me get Guthrie set up for a test drive, and let's see what we can do."

GUTHRIE WAS never sure what sort of magic Martin worked to make that deal happen. He had his test drive with a clueless recent college graduate who had babbled about T-bills and investment portfolios as Guthrie took the truck through its paces around San Rafael. He was pleasantly surprised at what he found.

The vehicle was more than decent—steering, suspension, engine noises, body. So clean. There were dings in the bed that meant it had been used, but it had obviously been cared for. The 100,000 miles on the odometer wasn't a lot for a truck like this—they were used for hauling, and this one would be good for another 200,000 more, Guthrie guessed. The truck that had just died—why hadn't he named her again? Had he been that afraid of connections when he was eighteen?—had garnered nearly 500,000 miles before coasting into the service bay, and Guthrie figured it had earned its rest. Hell, it was almost a dignified way to go.

Maybe this new one could even match the old one and—the thought still filled him with wonder—if it didn't, Guthrie might not be forced to drive it into an early grave from sheer desperation.

"So," the young salesman said, "are you getting it?"

Guthrie tried to breathe past the panic and remember the truth. The truth was, Olivia had probably already made the deal. All that remained was Guthrie signing on the dotted line. The truth was, even if the last two weeks were a fever dream, he knew how to make a living wage, and he'd find some way to pay his friend back.

The truth was, he could get to Colton in three days, exhausted, trail sore, almost frantic from missing Tad, with his pride in his hands along with the truth that he had no trust, no faith at all in Tad, in their friends, in the life and family they'd already started to forge together, or he could get there tonight, maybe have time to shower at Livvy's, maybe be able to get something to eat since he'd skipped breakfast, and having a good story to tell, and then nothing—nothing—but time to remind Tad why he was worth waiting for.

And he'd have more than his pride with him. He'd have proof, maybe, that he trusted in the world, trusted in the home Tad had promised to make them, had faith in the people Tad had put faith into. He'd show up with more than pride. He'd show up with a whole heart ready to put, giftwrapped, into Tad's hands so Tad could see it opened.

"I think Martin has the paperwork," he said, his voice coming from far away, his relief at having made the decision enough to weaken his knees. At the last minute, he remembered his sense of self-preservation. "Any way I could get it in a different color?" he asked, only partly to give the salesguy shit. Ugh. The days of electric-lime paint—had he slept through those or just been poor enough to miss them on the road?

He anticipated the practiced smile of apology, and when he got it, he was ready to move in for the kill.

"Well, maybe not," he said, "but is there any way the service guys could remove the lockbox in the back of the old one and reinstall it in the back of this one?"

And the salesguy was so excited to offer something to seal the deal, Guthrie got it for free.

MARTIN AND Olivia had hammered down the terms and conditions by the time Guthrie weaseled into the office from the back entrance, and while the salesguy watched on, seeming a little bit bewildered, Martin walked him through the paperwork. At one point, Guthrie tried to cut Olivia's loan down by offering the cash Adele had thrust in his pocket that morning.

Martin literally shoved it back at him.

"Oh my God, Guthrie—no. Just no. Pay it back to her, if you need to, but seriously. Take the cash, get a cup of coffee from the bistro at the corner, and wait for the lockbox to be installed."

Guthrie tried to scowl at him, but he couldn't. "They got good sandwiches." He yawned wistfully, and Martin rolled his eyes before pulling out a set of keys from his own pocket.

"Better yet," he said gently, "this one's for my car—you know my Honda—and this is my apartment. I just moved in with Tracy. She'll be at work in five. Hug her on the way out. I'll text you directions, you go nap on the couch for two hours, and I'll tag you when the truck's done. It's ten minutes away."

Guthrie opened his mouth to protest, but a yawn came out instead. Martin smiled and pressed the keys into his hand.

"You never did tell me," he said. "Did you make that recording session?"

Guthrie grinned at him. "It's where the money's gonna come from," he confided. "Look for the Hot Crustaceans—the LP should drop right before Christmas."

Martin sucked in an excited breath. "Oh God. Really?"

Guthrie nodded, and his heart must really have opened in the last three, four months, because his excitement spilled right on out. "I got six tracks on it," he said, biting his lip. "Like, Fiddler—erm, Seth—he picked through everybody's stuff, and there's ten total, but he picked six tracks of mine, and we worked 'em, and they did…. God, they did magic stuff to my music, but the lyrics and percussion's mine, and some of the guitar—"

"The voice?" Martin asked. "Did you do vocals?"

His grin broke free. "Yeah," he said. "And… and Martin, I think you might… I think it might hit. I got no guarantees. You might be the only one to buy it, but—"

Martin squeezed his eyes shut in excitement. "It's gonna be huge," he said, and Guthrie heard nothing in his voice but happiness for a friend. "It's gonna break huge , and every time it plays over the loudspeaker, I'll tell anybody who'll listen that Guthrie Woodson's my friend, and he even slept on my couch on the way home from cutting a legend." He opened his eyes and reached out to shake Guthrie's hand. "My friend Guthrie. It'll be epic."

Guthrie's eyes spilled over, and he couldn't blame the tiredness—not on this. "Thanks, brother," he said, and Martin pulled him into a hug.

"Go get some sleep," he murmured. "Paperwork's done. I'll text you when your lockbox is installed and it's all shifted over. If you want to get sandwiches on the way here, that's what you can do with your three hundred dollars. How's that?"

Guthrie nodded and accepted the kindness with a full heart. "It'll be epic," he said. "Let me get my laptop and knapsack. The rest is my instruments—"

"We'll treat them as gently as we'd treat Saint Peter's testicles," Martin said, his eyes dancing.

"I'm stealing that," Guthrie promised, impressed by the wordplay.

"Epic."

THREE HOURS later he was on his way.

The nap really had done him good, and as he settled into the cab of the truck, a new coffee in the cupholder, his phone playlist hooked up to the Bluetooth—which was such a better setup than his old truck he couldn't even believe technology had improved that much—he remembered to text Olivia that he should be there in Colton around six, maybe seven.

Come to Larx's house , she replied. We're doing dinner there tonight. We can give you directions to Tad's, and you can call from the landline.

Thanks, Livvy—that's kind.

Is the truck as ugly as you said it was?

Electric lime green. Thank you, darlin'. I can't thank you enough.

One word. Babysitting. Now stop texting and start driving. Love you!!

Love you back.

He set the phone in the holder and wondered about all the people in his life he had to love. He hadn't known that in April, when he'd gazed out at the audience and seen Tad looking back at him, those gray-green eyes catching at his heart.

But he knew it now. Knew he wasn't riding through the world alone. Knew that if he fell, he'd have someone who'd care enough to help him up. And knew that if someone he loved fell, he'd be there ready to do the same.

Funny how knowing something like that made you free in the world. He'd spent his life on the road, from gig to gig, and he'd never felt like he had wings until now, Golden Earring's "Radar Love" pounding through his new sound system, urging him to fly home.