I sat at the kitchen table, lost in thought, but then I took my laptop into Lucky’s room. Rocket was still on a date with Fin. My mom was still out in her studio and my dad was at the farm. The house was quiet. There were bits of Rocket’s fur on the quilt in the shape of a curled-up dog. No one bothered to shoo him off the bed anymore. I sat down on the bed and typed “Yuri Sacula” into my browser again. Links to shows all over the world where Yuri had performed popped up. I clicked on them, one by one, and watched. Some of them were higher-quality videos from concert halls in Europe and some of them were grainy videos shot in smoky, crowded clubs. Everything about the way Fin moved, the way he smiled, the way he played guitar, it was all just like his dad. Between songs, Yuri would speak to the audience in French. He always had a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. Holy shit. Fin was only ten when his parents died. I pulled the note I’d taken from the wooden box out of my pocket.
