Smoke hung heavy in the air. Will’s eyes stung. His throat.His nose. And the crackling. God, the crackling fire was like the devil laughing.Vera was in that house.Mikey gripped his arm. “Hold on, Will—”Will lunged forward. “Vera—”“Whoa, Will.” Mikey’s grip tightened. “Stop.”“The hell I will. Vera—”“Billy?” One of the cops approached him. Said a bunch ofwords. Helped Mikey hold Will back.Vera was in that house.Vera, her trusty wooden body, her frets, her new strings. Vera,who’d had his back everywhere from Pickleberry Springs toNashville to New York to LA, from seedy bars to stadiums.Vera, who’d helped him write his first song. His last song.Every song in between.
