Owen and I went to his shop on a Saturday morning, leaving Noah at a friend’s house.

I had expected a man who dealt in cash and avoided questions.

Instead, we met a thin, nervous shopkeeper with reading glasses and a faded cardigan, surrounded by instrument cases older than I was.

“I want to explain why I bought the guitar,” he began.

I folded my arms.

“You asked a thirteen-year-old whether his parents knew.

He told you something that wasn’t true.”

“Yes,” Walter said.