brought Simon home that afternoon. My office is at the front of the house, facing the street, so I had advance notice of their coming. (Here’s something else to worry about: do they talk this loudly because they’re plugged in, or is this premature hearing loss?) I got up from the computer—page 22!—and watched them from the window, the Labrador of the guitar case and the mastiff of the cello set down beside them on the sidewalk. At first they seemed to be arguing, then I recognized the outraged tones of agreement, Simon striking out at the air while Joe Jr. shook his tufts in sympathetic disgust. Someone coming along on the same side of the street caught sight of them and hurried across. Who in the world, I wondered, would be afraid of a teenager with a cello? Then boots on the wooden porch. There might have been horses at the door. They burst in, instrument cases colliding, one of them letting loose a stream of really shocking invective. “I’m not fucking even going to call her,”
