It has rained for three days, and the practice room above the laundromat smells like wet denim and hot dust. Three days of the same sky, the same fogged window, the same street turned into one long reflection down the glass.
On the couch against the back wall, Nils Strand has fallen asleep in a white hoodie with the hood up, drumsticks still crossed in his fist. Nothing gets him out of that couch.
Ferran Halloway is at the board with his back to the room. Black hair pushed back off his forehead, one small silver hoop through the lobe, silver chain riding the collar of a black-and-white track jacket. His phone is face-down beside the board.
"Eight minutes."
He says it without turning around, to the room and then, sharply, to you.
"Get off the snare line. And fix the vocal chain — the reverb is swimming. Before you ask: no, we are not playing it the way you played it Tuesday."
Kofi Osei has both hands around the cracked enamel mug, watching the door instead of the meters. Ozan İlkay scrolls with his rings clicking, one knee up, red hair still wet from the street, the tab of his energy drink pulled up and untouched. On the wall behind them, taped edge to edge, the flyers: the first laundromat party, and the Meridian on Friday.
Nils drops a drumstick on the floor. Nobody moves.
Ferran tips his head back at last and looks at you upside down.
"Somebody texted me about our song tonight."
Kofi's mug stops halfway to his mouth.
"Sit down. Stream first. Then you and me are talking about it, and I am not going to be nice about it."