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When a guitar chord rings out with all the fierce power of a crashing wave, you feel Marlowe's lips on yours.

You don't breathe—you can't—but you almost feel like you don't need to. It's as if the singers, with their high, soaring voices, are breathing for you.

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You think it must be pretty late as you step outside onto the dark street. Apart from the people leaving Skippy's, the street is almost empty—and for a moment, you remember the protest and the chaotic aftermath, and you wonder if the people who stayed behind to clean up are still finishing the job.

You stand with Marlowe for a couple of minutes as the rest of the crowd streams past, waiting for the sound of people's voices to dissolve away into the night. You share a look as you listen to the quiet.

"So—thanks for coming with me tonight," Marlowe says, smiling as they hold back a yawn. "I thought it was—"

They're cut off as the night is suddenly pierced by the sound of distant shouting. Frowning, you turn in unison to face the end of the street that leads back toward your house.

"What was that?" Marlowe asks, and you shake your head as you listen, trying to work out what's going on. As the shouting continues, you eventually manage to distinguish two separate voices.

"Wait a minute, just come back!"

"You don't even wanna listen to me, why should I stay there?"

"Because you can't just walk out at night on your own—"

"What about when I'm fifty? Are you still gonna track me everywhere I go? Are you ever gonna trust me?"

"Please just come back!"

"How could you think that was me? Why would I smash a window or trash a sculpture?"

"Tobias, all I know is you were home alone the night that happened—and you came home today with paint all over your hands, so what was I supposed to—"

"That's—it's—it's not even the same—just leave me alone!"

"Tobias—Tobias!"

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