You should go."

He looks through her,

toward the hallway,

toward the bedroom,

toward the gun.

"Wait!"

I jump out of my seat.

"Ask him to play my song,

the one he's writing for me."

"Play Logan's song," she tells him.

He glances in my general direction,

then focuses on her.

"Dylan told him?"

She nods when I nod.

"Brat can't keep a secret."

Mickey sets the guitar in his lap again,

tunes.

Tunes some more.

And then some more.

Tunes

tunes

tunes,

But never plays.

Krista shifts in her chair,

stretches her bare feet,

which are probably

falling asleep.

Her movement stops Mickey,

fingers on the guitar's pegs.

He lowers the head

and lets the instrument

roll forward,

strings facing down

in his lap.