The next morning Evan awoke to the sound of the shower through the bathroom wall. Lily was already up and getting ready. Probably snorting more H while she was at it. A little morning pick-me-up for a day on the road.

Evan got up and opened the curtains. The day was clear and already warm. He dressed and consolidated what few clothes he had lying about the room, then zipped his bag up and took it down to the car.

At the bottom of the stairs Evan heard a voice and a guitar coming from the vending machine area.

It was an older guy, with long white hair and a cowboy hat, sitting on the ground next to the Coke machine, belting out a song that Evan didn't recognize. He sang like he was in his own private home, loud and unapologetic— something about the man in him hiding sometimes because he doesn't want to turn into some machine.

The busker saw Evan coming and stopped singing.

"Sounds good," Evan said to the stranger, even though he was just being nice. He couldn't care less. The guy sounded okay. Nothing special. Better, at least, than the three people Evan had auditioned with the day before.

"Thanks," said the busker.

He looked down and noticed Evan's wristband. Evan had forgotten to take it off.

"How'd the audition go," the busker asked.

"I didn't get in."

"Eh, that's not surprising," said the busker. "That shit's on the wane anyhow. You play?"

"No, I barely even sing," said Evan. "Just wanted to give it a try."

"Was it worth it?"

"I'm not sure yet."

The busker chuckled, a dry sound, like leaves scraping across an empty parking lot.

"It's always worth it," he said. "Now you know."

"Yeah, I guess," said Evan. "You play out around here?"

"Try to," said the busker. He finger picked a chord thoughtfully. Cheerful notes rang out.

"How's the music scene around here?" Evan asked.

"Oh, it's brutal. You go to open mic nights, you're lucky if you even get to sign up. And even if you do get on the list, you're on at 1 in the morning. Naw, I just do this for fun, mostly."

"How long you been in Nashville?"

"Just checking it out. Been here a week now. Gonna head back to Missouri on Monday."

"You got a website or anything I could check out?"

"Naw, don't need no website," said the busker. "I'll get one of those when I make it."

He grinned.

The elevator door opened and a fiftyish woman came out. She was frumpy but merry-looking, with dark hair and liberally applied make-up.

"Here she is," said the busker, standing and dusting the seat of his pants off. "Best of luck to you, young man."

"You, too," said Evan.

The busker and his lady walked over to an old Buick sedan. The busker threw his guitar in the backseat and they drove off.

Evan tore off his wristband, looked at it crumpled in his palm, and threw it into the nearest trash can.