Blake lives in an older section of the city—nothing high class, just row upon row of brownstone townhouses that look identical in the hazy glow of street lamps. Dane gets off the Metro, turns around to get his bearings, then starts down the sidewalk at a fast clip, holding onto his guitar strap with one hand, the bag strap with the other. Two blocks from the stop, that’s what Randy told him, and he keeps his head down so he doesn’t meet anyone’s eye. He doesn’t want to get stopped at this time of the evening by anyone out here on the street.
His hair falls around his face like blinders. Near the Metro, a grizzled man hunches down into a tattered Army jacket, a hat at his feet, a guitar in his hands so worn and battered, it makes the one on Dane’s back look new. He’s fumbling through a few
