I told myself I owed it to Mom and Dad, but underneath I was relieved to deal with some crisis other than my own. Maybe I could even fix it. Oh, God, I needed to do something right. “Give me the guitar,” I told him, opening the door just wide enough for him to pass it through. I didn’t want him to see my place. I knew how bare it was. He handed me his six-string acoustic. At home he had three more – two electric, including a pearl-front Fender Stratocaster that he’d won over the summer at SunJam, a provincial competition and concert. I locked the apartment door behind me. “Where are we going?” Daniel asked cautiously. “To see Mogen Kruse,” I said. “Jens, no! He’s really pissed at me.” “That’s at you.” I started down the hallway toward the stairs. “I know how to handle people.” Daniel looked surprised when we walked past the parking lot and over to the street where my truck was. “Somebody parked in my spot,” I said. I unlocked the doors. Daniel hesitated, even though he was getting wet.
