The hangover from the session isn’t in my head.
It’s in my throat.
By the next morning, my voice feels like sandpaper, and my nerves feel like they’ve been played with a pick.
Mia plops down on my bed with her laptop and a bowl of fruit she’s pretending is a balanced breakfast.
“Good news,” she says. “The world still thinks you’re missing.”
“Comforting,” I mutter.
“Better missing than meme’d for a bad live,” she says. “Trust me.”
I roll onto my back, staring at the canopy. “We made something yesterday,” I say quietly. “And it’s just…sitting there. He is trapped in his hard drives.”
“The track?” she asks. “The devil one?”
“The devil I married,” I correct. “And yeah.”
She leans back against the headboard. “You knew he wouldn’t just let you drop it on Spotify this morning, right?”
