“HMMM,” I SAY, squinting into the morning sun. As predicted, neither Dad nor I could sleep last night, so we didn’t waste any time getting ready this morning and making our way over to the address on Dan Silver’s business card. His office is on Music Row, too, but as we stand on the sidewalk facing a small bungalow, I can’t help but notice the stark difference between this place and the imposing GAM office building. “This isn’t at all what I expected.”

“Me neither,” my dad says, looking up at the one-and-a-half-story building. “But it’s kind of nice. Reminds me a little of our house on Adams Road.”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. The sign on the front door is written in brightly colored lowercase letters, spaced out artistically: open highway records. We’ve been on the road nearly half my life, so the name feels right. I pull the lucky rock out of the front pocket of my jeans and roll it around in my hand. Yesterday I showed up at GAM full of nerves, but today, I feel more confident.

My dad leads me down the short walk and up the steps to the broad porch. He presses the doorbell, and while we wait, I picture myself writing a song in the large, whitewashed porch swing. I get chills. This almost feels like home.

“Welcome, welcome,” Mr. Silver says, opening the door himself and gesturing for us to come inside. The front room is open, and there is a big oak desk, but no one sits behind it. The place is oddly peaceful. “We don’t have a receptionist just yet,” he explains, “so feel free to tip your doorman.”

We all smile at his joke and then follow him toward the back.

“How long have you been open, Mr. Silver?” I ask, following him to his office.

“Please, call me Dan,” he says over his shoulder. “I left Allied last month and brought a few clients with me—smaller acts, but people I couldn’t just walk away from,” he explains, glancing back at me. “And we rep songwriters like Shannon Crossley, which is why I was at the Bluebird last night.”

He stops at the door of his office and ushers us inside.

“I know this place doesn’t look like much,” he says with a smile, “but Open Highway will be big one day; it just takes time. We want to make sure that the artists we scout, the new ones we sign, are the right ones to grow the label.”

My dad and I nod, listening to everything he says, but our eyes are absorbing his impressive office. It’s not nearly as large as Randall’s, but it’s filled with photos of just as many recognizable faces.

“I’m not a desperate man,” Dan continues. “I left Allied because I want to accomplish something special. I want to sign artists who are willing to take chances, who care more about their music than their image. In short: quality versus quantity.”

He directs us to a small sitting area. Everywhere I turn, I see Silver posing with the country music stars I grew up with. Framed pictures cover the walls and his desk: Silver with his arm around Tim McGraw, Silver squeezed between Miranda Lambert and Blake Shelton at their wedding, Silver with Jason Aldean holding up one of the many CMAs that line the mantel over the fireplace behind his desk, and on and on. The walls are covered with platinum and gold records. I marvel at how hard it must have been to walk away from all of this—to start over, to take such a big leap of faith.

Dad and I take our seats on a tan leather couch. Dan sits across from us in an old but very comfortable-looking armchair and pours everybody a glass of sweet tea. I realize then that Dan’s not wearing a suit. He’s in jeans and a light blue collared shirt, no jacket, no tie.

He leans back casually. “I’m not one to beat around the bush, guys,” he says. “I know you have a contract from GAM, and I hope you read the papers last night—” He pauses here, looking me straight in the eye until I nod. He nods back and continues. “They’re a big label and a good company. They have name recognition and represent a lot of famous artists. I’m not naive. I know that has to be appealing to you, and it may feel safe. I know because I was president of a company just as big.”

He drops his leg and leans forward, his elbows on his knees and his gaze intense. “But I stand by what I said last night. They will try to package you to fit into their pop image and new-country sound.”

He glances over at my dad and then turns his stare back to me.

“The reason I left Allied was because I wanted the freedom to find and develop truly unique talent again,” he says. “It had started becoming all about money and just churning out the same old stuff because that’s what was selling.” He stops and grins. “Of course, we want your music to sell…” My dad chuckles. I return Dan’s smile, his enthusiasm catching. “But we want it to be just that, your music.”

“That’s what I want, too,” I say. “I loved playing my stuff at the Bluebird last night. I was nervous at first, but after we went around a couple of times, I felt like there was nowhere else on earth I’d rather be.”

“And that was obvious to everybody in the crowd, right, Judd?”

“I thought she was amazing.”

“Exactly, and not just because you’re her father.” The way Dan says things, it’s as if they’re facts—not questions. “Bird, you excite me as an artist more than anyone has in a long time. Your songs were full of raw emotion, and the way you played and sang from the heart, without forcing the feelings, was like a breath of fresh air. Of course GAM wants you, but we do, too. I want to operate Open Highway from here”—he knots his fist at his gut—“not from here,” he says, pointing to his head.

“And where do you see Bird fitting in?” my dad asks, clearly as excited about Dan Silver’s take on the industry as I am.

“We’re not as big as Great American Music,” he answers candidly, “but we’re better. Or at least we will be with Bird on board.” He turns his gaze on me. “Bird, you’re what Open Highway Records is all about, and we want you to be one of our first new artists. I’m prepared to sign you to a full record deal. I think you have what it takes to turn this industry on its head, and I want to be the one helping you do it.”

His pitch is impassioned. He believes I’m good enough to jump in with both feet. I look over at my dad, meeting blue eyes just like mine, and see there exactly what I’m already thinking: Dan Silver is our man. I nod slightly.

“Okay, Dan,” my dad says, looking a little relieved. “Get us some papers.”

Dan grins and stands up, shaking my hand first and then my dad’s before walking over to his desk.

“It’s happening, Bird,” my dad says.

“It really is,” I answer. And although I’ve been on the road practically my whole life, I somehow feel like my journey is just beginning.