SIXTY-TWO
THE GROUP STOPPED PLAYING MUSIC WHEN THEIR CREW ARRIVED at Hydra Camp—just to greet them.
“Thunderbirds!”
No one had ever been so happy to see him. Hugs, everywhere. The joy felt real. Natural. Less and less hard to believe. Like the messages of love and welcome were part of a much older story, had been twisted deep in their DNA, inscribed in their bones. If joy was so natural—why not all the time? Like—why no make-out coves?
Everyone seemed to play music.
They went for their instruments. Rumblefish with a resonator guitar, Alea with a fiddle, Moondog with a little wooden cajón that looked hand-carved for his small butt. Thomas tested the acoustics and Charity carried her glowing gift in her chest but—nothing here with black and white keys. Not a Casio. Not even an accordion. Griff got a drink from a hand-mosaicked bar, relaxed into a beautiful plush sofa, and watched them play.
The group covered some of the Band’s songs and played originals and Charity opened up her sweetest, deepest voice. As they played, the whole place felt buoyant. Rocking him back and forth. A smooth, hypnotic glide, and Rumblefish sidled up beside him like a wild pirate boarding his sweet, sleepy ship—
“What do you play?” he asked.
Griff sat up straight. “What?”
The music had stopped. They were looking at him. Smiling.
“Piano,” Griff said.
“Is that it?”
“Yeah,” Griff said. “That’s really it.”
“Piano,” Rumblefish told the group.
The vibe changed. A tightening.
“It’s okay,” Griff said. “I’m sure there’s not a piano in the desert.”
“No,” Rumblefish said. “There’s one.”
Rumblefish stood. Cinched up his backpack. “Are you prepared?”
“Prepared?” Griff asked.
“Like, how far are you willing to go?”
“Wait, wait,” Stitch said. “I implore you, Rumble of the Fish, to apply reason. We are deep in the night. Our friends have traveled far and wide for tomorrow night’s show and could be in need of some rest. I’m pretty sure Charity was just sleeping with her eyes open.”
Charity laughed.
“So what then?” Rumblefish asked.
“We Cuddlenap,” Stitch said. The idea seemed to take hold.
“Pianooooo,” Rumblefish protested through a yawn.
“Get your nighty-night drinks, people,” Stitch said. “Let’s rally.”
Curtains opened, people vanished, and others clustered near the bar.
Griff and Charity stood, staring at each other. Charity smiled.
“What?” Charity asked.
Griff beckoned her closer.
“Did she say Cuddlenap?”
Charity raised her eyebrows and grabbed his hand.