The sun was just thinking about rising when Harpo crept into the room of doors and sat at the piano. This morning, he’d trick Ayala. She’d walk out to the lake and get all ready to ditch him, but he’d beat her to it. He’d ditch her first. He just wouldn’t go.
He opened the piano’s dust cover. This was how Chico used to start when they were kids: Chico played a single chord, and the music vibrated exactly where Harpo’s heart was. Even Mr. Levi— the piano teacher with the wrist-smacking ruler and drooling Bronx lisp—clutched his heart like the hammiest of romantics. Harpo needed that. His heart hurt. He needed something to mend it, and music seemed just the thing. He didn’t look at the keys. Maybe the trick was to not overthink. He looked out the window, at the pastel clouds and lit up wate
