Pete arrived later with a battered laptop and demonstrated how the old sessions had been organized.

I recorded a few chords, played them back, and heard every fret squeak through the monitors.

“Don’t polish all the life out of it,” Pete warned when I reached for the editing tools.

“Sometimes the squeak is how you know a person was there.”

At six, Frank suggested we order dinner.

I nearly refused because I was calculating the cost.