CHAPTER TWENTY
He did not know why, but stepping into his workshop reminded him of stepping into the small-town library where he had spent most of his youth. The smell was sort of the same, the silence of the place was exactly the same, and he knew he was going to get lost in the aisles that sat in front of him. Of course, the aisles in his workshop were vastly different from the aisles of that long-ago library; instead of books, there were the hollowed out bodies of pianos. Most were from flea markets and yard sales. One was even from a yard sale in some rich Chicago suburb, a great find that he’d only dropped one hundred bucks on.
He walked through his workshop now, extending his hands and touching each of the pianos he had collected. There were nine in all, lined up on opposite sides
