At night, after my shifts, I sat in my bedroom with headphones on, trying to finish songs that never sounded quite right.

Sometimes Marcus visited and helped me adjust the microphone.

Sometimes he brought used equipment he’d found at reasonable prices.

He never offered to make me famous.

He simply treated music like something worth doing properly.

Dad treated it like a distraction.

At least, that was how it seemed.

One night, I was recording a guitar part when he knocked on my door.