“Well,” he looked at each one in turn, “If anything happens to him, I think he’ll have to know you boys were bothering him.”

“I don’t’ care if they let him out,” he bellowed.

“We can talk about that,” Valto said, tone even. He looked to the Guitarist, “You should go, Ignazio.”

Iggy nodded and turned away from the men. He rushed over the parking lot. The closest back road was near, but only a single bridge got him over the Cumberland. There is the northern approach, he thought, but it would be morning before he arrived home. Maybe, this time, he hoped his fortune would be good.

Staying clear of the main road, he walked along. The music had turned down, muffled by the head ache. He withdrew the medicine, which kept the images at bay. It stopped the migraines, though it had been a long time since his last headache. Never had he missed a pill. Inside were several that would last a few days. So long had it been since his last bad spell, Iggy wondered if the prescription was till necessary.

If not for bad luck, Ignazio Ruffo would have no luck. A wind, perhaps from an aggressive autumn breeze or a speeding car, slapped the hand which held the bottle. Through the air it tumbled, contents spilled. Deft fingers of the Guitarist snatched at them as they fell, but the medicine slipped through his grip. They struck the storm grate, before disappearing into the dark. He pushed fingers in the hole.

“Please,” begged Iggy, and tried to fish out the pills. He picked up the bottle. The La Voison woman had helped him get it. She had known how it felt to be an outsider, he knew, even back then. One of few adults that spoke to him as a person, she was kind.

For a moment, he looked at the pill bottle and then the grate. “I suppose I should have guessed,” a long sigh blew strands away from his mouth. Better to accept it, he thought and hoped it was true.

Back to the road he moved without a glance back. The music kept his feet moving, though the migraine stifled it. Deeper it dug its claws into his skull and eye socket. Even the scar burned, though the x-rays had shown all to be well. He trudged on, though staggered, which threw off the beat of his song.

Through the streets he moved, marveled at the changes, but the pain stomped down wonder. The sound of the traffic on the main road grew, as he approached the bridge. Along the tree line, Iggy looked at the passing vehicles. I hope they moved on, he prayed, and the Guitarist moved towards the bridge. “Okay,” he blew out a breath, hands shook.

“Stop,” a voice commanded.

A grip, light as air, jerked the Guitarist back. He fell upon his butt, teeth clacked together with a click. “Hey,” Iggy frowned. A teenage boy regarded him, eyes wide. He screamed as gray swelled at the edges of his vision. Beat of the music inside was riotous, which matched the beat of his heart.

The boy jumped upon him, covered his mouth, though his weight was a feather. “Shut up, Iggy!” he pointed past the tree line. A truck with an extended cab slowed, windows rolled down, and the four men looked about the road. A dark stillness lingered in their fury.

He breathed hard, wild eyes upon them instead of the boy. They moved on, circled back towards the main town. Eventually, he looked back at the boy. “Page,” sobbed Iggy.

The boy smiled, “It’s me, Iggy, so be cool.”

“Oh God, OH GOD,” he moaned. “You’re gone. You’re,” tears spilled, “this is impossible!” Gray turned to black at the edges of his vision, head felt light.

“I said to be cool,” Page held up his hands. “You’re going to blow a gasket!” Iggy stared at him, for he wore the same jeans and high tops. The forever teenage boy’s shirt had a picture of Einstein with his tongue out.

No blood stained it now, the Guitarist saw, and felt his heart split. “Page, bro, I can’t,” he shook his head.

“Then turn around, Iggy,” he frowned, unspoiled features cramped, and Page shook his head. “Never figured you for a coward,” his blue eyes turned back, “not after standing up to your father.”

Every man reached his limit, even boys. Iggy touched his lip at the memory, “And, I suffered for it…the look in his eyes. I thought I would die. He recalled the sour tang of beer blew over him, memory real as Page.

“You looked like ten pounds of crap in five pound bag,” he nodded.

A short laugh shot out of the Guitarist, “You are Page.”

“Who else would I be?” asked the teenager. “You were a genius on Paganini, but a bit slow at everything else.”

“You could have been a doctor,” Iggy’s eyes burned, “a lawyer, or a scientist. You had a future, man. You were going places.” He shook his head, “you can’t be you!” Out of the pocket he produced the pill bottle, “I ran out of that, my meds.”

Page opened his mouth, closed it. About the ditch his blue eyes searched and then stopped. He looked at Iggy, “You know Miss Booker, the Math Teacher?”

He blinked, “Yes.”

“You were right,” he blushed but shrugged, “she changed my grade on the test. It was a high B, and she bumped it up to an A.”

Iggy’s eyes widened, mouth worked, “I knew it.”

“I am here to help you,” Page touched his leg, soft as a breeze. “Once you cross that bridge, brother, we are in it to win it.”

“What if I don’t go” he pleaded.

“We were you friends,” Page looked into his eyes.

Iggy shook his head, tears spilled, but the not quite a boy and not quite a man looked at him. “I waited so long to move on,” he begged.