“You can make music.”
He drew a shaky breath.
“When you get this place, it’ll be yours. You can make music, sell the equipment, turn it into something else. Whatever makes you happy. And I won’t be around to tell you you’re doing it wrong.”
For a moment, Dad just stared at the camera.
Then someone stepped into the frame.
“We’ve got his back, buddy.”
Frank.
He placed a hand on Dad’s shoulder.
“We’ve got his back, buddy.”
Two other men appeared beside him. I recognized them from the old photographs on the walls.
The bassist grinned.
Dad laughed.
“Besides, once you’re gone, we’re going to need a new guitarist.”
“And a singer,” the drummer added. “Preferably one who can actually hit the high notes.”
Dad laughed, wiping his face.
“You hear that, son? Apparently, they’re already planning to replace me.”
“One last thing.”
