“Ah, well. That robot nonsense isn’t my style.”

Flint shrugged. “My partner and I just got back from Japan. We had a cabin outside of Sapporo. I was doing remote work through Surge the entire time. Full salary. I just thought I’d clue you in. With the way you were looking at Sabrina, I thought you might be interested in coming to more of these shows at least.”

“Her name’s Sarah.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I could give you a demo. It’s really something.”

“I’ll have to pass. Thanks though.”

But when he got home, it was past midnight. He’d have to be up in another five hours—then he’d really be feeling those four beers he opted for to escape his feelings of alienation in that crowd. He stomped up the steps and opened his back door to the basement. Lights were out throughout the house, save the upstairs living room which rang with sitcom laughter and flashed lights down the stairs towards where he entered. They dimly lit his wall of treasures as he crept by. He took the moment to admire it, some twenty thousand dollars of instrumentation, gathering dust. Five years ago, a midlife-crisis attempt at starting another band had placed them into his hands. That plan went nowhere, and instead, instrument collection became another ego project. Step one, own the same model guitar as Hendrix. Next, hold the domain over the McCartney bass. Get every piece from the Peart drum kit. It was as if those mementos linked him to their music.

The laugh tracks grew louder as he ascended the stairs, emerging to the noise of How I Met Your Mother, a show that might as well have been a binky to his teenage daughter Emma. She was still awake, sitting in the otherwise dark in an armchair, turned away so he could only see her long hair streaked with red dye. It would kill her to find out, but he once styled his the same. As if a reflex, she snatched up the remote and paused it upon seeing him, Neil Patrick Harris’ mouth now hanging open like the Scream mask.

Damien said the predictable thing first. “Bedtime, kiddo.”

“You’re the one up late.”

“Us adults have shrinking brains. We have to take these liberties while we can.”

“You told mom you weren’t taking any more late night calls.”

He swallowed, his head hanging lower as he played into this lie. “Hey, but duty calls, right?”

She scowled, reaching for the remote and letting Neil Patrick Harris finish his joke. Damien watched him trade quips with Jason Segel for a few minutes.

“Emma, you’re not using that chat-gee-pee-tee thing in any of your school assignments, are you?”

“No. Why would I do that?”

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