I placed the case on his workbench.

The garage looked like the inside of a music store after a small earthquake.

There were cables hanging from hooks, two keyboards against one wall, old concert posters, and a stack of speakers that had probably been waiting for repairs since I was born.

Marcus pointed toward a folding chair.

“Have a seat.”

I sat down while he opened an old cardboard folder.

Inside were photographs, newspaper clippings, handwritten song lists, and faded advertisements for performances at places I’d never heard of.