SIXTY-SEVEN

THE NIGHT HAD A NEW, WILD FLAVOR.

As if the flash of light had cut a slit in the sky’s dark curtain. A thrown-open door to somewhere new. Fresh gusts carried the gratifying tang of ozone, the muddy breath of a river.

“That storm smell!” Charity said.

“Water,” Griff said.

A long crackle of thunder like a log broken over a giant’s knee. They howled back at it.

“OwwwowwwOOOWWWW!”

The ancient song tore out through their chests and the group went spinning out across the dunes, whirling like autumn leaves. At the next thunderclap, Griff counted the seconds. One, two, three… Wet his finger in his mouth and checked the direction of the wind. Thirteen, fourteen—

Lightning. A hot pop of broken tungsten.

The flash glazed the mountains in silver and clutched the clouds with sudden light. Dark and scalloped, overfull bellies scraping mountaintops about 3 miles away. Gusts blowing hard in a favorable direction. Maybe they’d be okay. Thomas predicted otherwise:

“It was their last night on Earth!” he declared, throwing his arms up in a V.

KABOOM!

“Stop,” Stitch said. “You’re scaring your rat.”

In the swinging carrier, Neapolitan was pacing, sniffing at the window. Hairless paws clutching the door.

“This way!” Rumblefish shouted, windmilling his arms.

“Hear that?” Charity asked.

The wind heaved itself across the sand and carried the soft chime of scattered notes.

“Piano,” Griff said.

A modern-sounding composition. He couldn’t quite pick it out. Their scattered group coalesced into a steady line. Like a march. A forever climb up the dune and so Griff started jogging, lifting his knees. It felt suddenly urgent. The wind might catch the piano’s lid like a sail, carry it over the horizon.

“You’re fast when you’re nervous,” Charity said.

“Just want to get there,” Griff said.

The piano was louder now, discernible notes. It had the warmth of a grand. Perfect string tension. Very close. Just over this dune.

Griff and Charity were in the lead.

“They’re good,” Griff said.

Maybe one player. Maybe two. The playing was that fast.

The last slippery footsteps—Griff considered how awful it would be, to finally reach the instrument and find two players at the bench. How it would, in a sense, be the worst thing he could imagine.

Cresting the top of the dune, he saw it.

“Impossible,” he whispered.

A nine-foot Steinway concert grand. The most beautiful instrument conjured by the patient hand of mankind. And a big crowd. The small basin between dunes had been arranged like a plush living room. Lanterns hung from hunks of driftwood, dangled from uprooted trees. Red knots of fabric tied like raspberry drupelets, throwing red splotches on the sand. The player sounded skilled. But too fast. He played like he was running out of time.

Griff looked more closely and froze.

The player was clothed and masked with burlap. Ripped holes for eyes. Where a mouth should be, crude stitching. Pinkish hands fluttered from ragged cuffs.

“What’s that?” Griff breathed.

“Bagman,” Rumblefish said, catching his breath.

A hand clutched Griff’s shoulder and he jumped. Turned to see Thomas, his lips outlined in purple.

“Griff,” Thomas said softly. “Do you see that? A man in burlap playing piano like Maserati?”

“You mean Mozart?” Griff asked. “Or Liberace?”

“I mean a fucking burlap suit with eyeholes,” Thomas said.

“Yes.”

“We’ll never get him off the bench,” Stitch said.

“We need to hear Griff play,” Rumblefish said, holding Griff’s shoulder.

“This guy doesn’t take turns,” Stitch said.

Bagman finished the piece with a one-handed flourish. The crowd applauded.

“This is a concert,” Griff said. “I can’t interrupt.”

“No,” Rumblefish said. “There’s only one piano in the desert. It belongs to all of us.”

The Bagman started a new piece. He stood. Put a knee on the piano bench. Lengthening his arm, he reached into the guts of the piano. Mashed the wires.

“Is that legal?” Stitch said.

“It’s ‘Black Earth,’” Griff exhaled. “That’s how you play the piece.”

Together, the group moved down the dune. The piece sounded like a hollow, ticktock jangle interrupted by brief, percussive bursts. The crowd noticed them. Turning heads and chatter. When they reached the low, flat center of the performance space, Bagman was hunched over the piano, hands on exposed wires, elbow jerking.

“We’ll come with you,” Charity said.

A small contingent of them inched forward—Thomas, Stitch, Charity, Rumblefish, and Griff. The rest of the group hung back. Griff took a few more steps, standing separate from the audience now. Hanging in the liminal space between spectator and performer. As if slowly approaching a nonexistent tip jar.

“One step at a time,” Rumblefish said.

“I’ll just ask him for one song,” Griff said. “That’s it.”

Bagman played harder. The closer they got, the more he pounded. Hammers crashing, rent edges of fabric fluttering at his wrists, Griff wondered how that felt, and touched his own wrists. When the Bagman stopped, the great instrument’s soundboard shuddered. Applause.

“Do you want me to come?” Charity asked.

“I got it,” Griff said.

Bagman suddenly looked up.

Ragged eyeholes. Griff half expected buttons for pupils. Dark mirrors. But the Bagman’s eyes were very much alive in their cloth caves. The crowd held the silence.

Griff stepped forward. Suddenly he and the Bagman were quite close. The man’s arms hung loose at his sides. Long fingers trailing shredded cuffs. Bare feet.

Griff’s hands were itchy.

“Can I play one?” Griff asked.

The Bagman stared back at him. He breathed beneath burlap. Lungs, a heart, and all the parts of a human. Why couldn’t he respond? He tilted his shoulders a bit, moved over on the bench. Making room.

“I meant,” Griff said, “could I play my own piece?”

He was still. Griff turned back toward his friends, far away. Thomas signed to him:

Want to leave?

DA DUN!

Griff’s knees shook. He turned back to face the Bagman.

The crowd hooted and clapped. Seeming to feed on the applause, Bagman raised a hand. Again, his finger pounced on C-sharp.

DA DUN!

Sharp, clean notes rang out.

For Griff, the paracord was just instinct.

A snap calculation of the body. He could not play his best with it on, and he could afford nothing less than his best. He unclasped the piece of durable plastic that held the bracelet halves in place and turned to his friends. He chose Stitch. Standing out front, beaming confidence. She had no idea what it meant. He removed it. Removed his black security band. He threw both to Stitch and rubbed his plain, smooth wrists.

DA DUN!

“You know this one!” Thomas shouted.

Yes. First at camp. Then low through the drywall. Rattling panes in French doors. The unmistakable shave-and-a-haircut summons of the four-hands duet. Griff knew exactly what it meant.

The Bagman slid over.

Showtime.