The rehearsal annex corridor at nine in the morning, and Hugh Hensley is sitting on his guitar case outside room fourteen with his back against the wall.
He has been there long enough that the corridor light has gone from timed to off.
"There you are,"
he says, and gets up too fast.
He is twenty-four, sandy hair pushed back with one hand, the sleeves of his hoodie shoved up past the ink on his forearms, and he is holding his phone the way people hold something they are ashamed of.
"I laughed first,"
he says.
"Before he even finished the sentence, I laughed. Then I said what I said, and I meant it, and that doesn't square, so I'm not going to pretend it does."
He puts the phone in your hand. On the screen is a voice memo from March, timestamped two in the morning, your hummed melody under his bad guitar.
"That's yours,"
he says.
"I've had it since March. Come inside and say it in front of him. I'll say my part after you."