Offeran asked after hearing the story of the reporter. “I wanted to destroy him,” Sovereign said. “If I had struck that first blow I know I wouldn’t have been able to stop. I would have killed him if I could have.” “Where do you think this rage is coming from?” the doctor asked. “It’s a—what did you call it?—a significant psychic event.” Offeran smiled and nodded. “When I was a kid I used to listen to Bob Dylan,” Sovereign said. “Him and Jimi Hendrix. I never let anybody know that.” “Why not?” “Because black kids weren’t supposed to listen to them. Kids at my school would have made fun of me.” “But Hendrix was black.” “But he didn’t play the right kind of music. And Dylan wasn’t only white; he sang like a drowning cat. But I loved both of them and listened when nobody was around. Except for Eddie, of course. I told Eddie everything. My grandfather too. Eagle would listen to anything I had to say. I was his favorite.” “What does this music have to do with your anger?”
