There’s no corridor in a field, so Fitz walked us down a path of duckboards between two fences, at five to nine on Saturday, with the lanterns lit on either side, and touched each of us once on the shoulder as we passed so she’d know where we were when the lights went.
Lenny in front, hitting his sticks on his leg. Femi, phone off. Dot with the fiddle under her arm like a parcel she’d been asked to mind. Then me. Then, behind me, where I couldn’t see him and could hear every step on the boards, Ezra, with the red guitar, humming one note. It was very nearly a D. The truck was humming it too, at the end of the row behind us, and I don’t think he knew he’d picked it up.
At the steps Marek put the plywood-top into my hands, and I checked the…
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