It was a functioning studio.

I crossed to a rack of guitars and stopped in front of a black acoustic instrument with a silver star sticker near the neck.

I knew the sticker.

I had put it there when I was sixteen, on the first guitar I bought with wages from the grocery store.

I’d believed the guitar had disappeared during one of Dad’s garage cleanouts.

I had spent an entire afternoon looking for it, then stopped asking because every answer became an argument.