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Around The Fur ---------------------

by Dissident Love title by Chino Moreno & The Deftones www.oneloveforchi.com

Chapter One - The Ties That Bind -------------------------------------

Just before we get underway, I feel the need to tell you that I was never really good at writing, ok? I mean, sure, I got decent marks in high school, but more in science and physics than English or history. I dunno why. It's easier to remember equations than sonnets, I suppose. Anyways, the point is, writing is not my 'thing'. I would definitely say it's Myles's 'thing', but he insists that I do this. Maybe he'll proofread.

So, where to start?

I don't wanna start at the BEGINNING beginning, because you'll all get bored and change the channel before we even get to this decade, so let's just start at the beginning of the end, which would be last September.

Most of this story takes place in my hometown of Forks, Washington. Really, I don't blame you if you haven't heard of it. People who live one town over have barely heard of it. We're just a short drive the from the most westerly inhabited location in the Lower 48, which hardly even counts as a town... more like a gas station with delusions of grandeur. Forks, though, has more than 3000 people. We're so metropolitan.

Yes, Myles, I know how to spell 'metropolitan'. Put your tongue away.

Anyway, we're in Forks, and it's September 2008. At least, I'm in Forks. I dunno where any of you guys are. This is the Internet, you could be on the International Space Station for all I know (I didn't even know they LET you guys on websites like this!) Summer break has just ended, and school is back in, but not for me. I finished Grade 12 back in June. I'm a grown-up now. It's awesome.

My dad couldn't keep up the mortgage on the home anymore, thank you VERY much, complete economic collapse of rural Washington. We still managed to sell it, which was a fucking miracle, and I hope you can imagine the look on my face when he presented me with a check for 20% of the above-board profit as a graduation present. It wasn't a LOT, but it let me get a Playstation 3 and a second-rate third-hand car, and I banked the rest, because even though I made it through the American educational system, I'm not a complete moron. He got an apartment above the Super Save. A one bedroom apartment.

First rule about being a grown-up, it seems: you stop living with your folks.

I didn't have college to go to. I didn't know what I wanted to be. Hell, I still don't, but back then all I wanted to do was just work for a bit, and hang out, and see what being a grown-up had to offer me that made it any better than being a kid. Being a kid was sweet... food appeared on the table, laundry appeared in the closet, and staying up past midnight on a school night made you feel badass. What's not to love?

I proved to be a resourceful little mammal, and managed to take over Skivvies' job at the Fas Gas. Skivvies went off to the U of W campus in Tacoma, since he was always a smart little guy, definitely not Fas Gas material. Me and him were never really good friends (really, I wasn't really good friends with ANYONE in Forks for a very long time), but we got along ok. I was in there, buying some Jones' and we got to talking about what was gonna happen after grad. He said he was bailing, I said I wasn't, and he got me in good with his boss.

So now Skivvies is off being Big Mouse On Campus in the city, and I'm working at a gas station. Not just working... living. The Fas Gas, back in the day, used to be Forks only car dealership, so the building is actually fairly spacious, though only a tiny bit of it ss used for merchandise. My boss, Mr Nguyen, was just storing all of his stuff back there, and I mean ALL of it. Beds, couches, boxes of newspapers, the guy was a proverbial pack-rat (proverbial since he was one of the few humans in town with a good job). We struck a deal, and I came in one weekend in July and put up some walls, fixed some plumbing, and threw up a coat of paint. Now he has his storage space, and I have Casa Del Bender.

Shit, I forgot that, didn't I? My name's D.L. Bender. I told you I sucked at this. I'm not going back and erasing anything, though, so you'll just have to live with it. Myles is laughing at me. Douche.

Anyways, it wasn't a bad place. One big room, and a key to the employee washroom. I had a little kitchen area built around the shop sink, with a hotplate and a microwave. I had a couch AND a futon, both of which served as my bedroom, living room and dining room, and a wonderful collection of nails and screws that served as my closet. One wall was just nothing but hanging pants and shirts. I didn't even have to paint that one. Oh well, live and learn. It was all I needed, anyways. I didn't spend a LOT of time there. I had a decent TV for my Playstation, but after six weeks even the sheer power of Sony's Top Of The Line Product couldn't hold my attention. Gas prices kept going up, so the Bender Beamer (an AMC Beagle) spent a lot of time parked under shady bowers of the Russian olive trees out back (neither Russian, nor olives... discuss).

August was rolling out the back door. I had a job, I had a place to live, I had a gorgeous girlfriend, I had money in the bank... the world was my oyster. I could have gone anywhere. I could have afforded a place in the city for six months, or a year if I was really frugal, and tried to find something to do with my life, but I was happy where I was, my girl was staying put, and I already had a job here. I had a million reasons to leave, but none of them were really good enough. This was my hometown. I might not have any friends, and I had a crappy job, but it was still my home.

Pretty much everyone I was in high school with either got a good job at the mill (which wasn't easy, considering that the slowdown had all but killed it), one of the correctional centers (why did they build THREE prisons a stone's throw from here? I dunno), or just flat-out left town. The last one definitely had majority share. Some of the more resourceful people who really wanted to stay in town, though, found a rather interesting way to make a living.

Did you ever read those Twilight books? I know you've heard of them, if your blood is pumping and you own a television. Anyway, that writer, Stephanie Mesomys, has never set FOOT in Forks, but she decides to set her freaking sparkly-vampire teen-angst rape-fantasy sex-romp here. Tourism goes through the roof, and now there's guided tours, if you can believe that. The movie wasn't filmed here, either, but some places look like locations in the book, so... yeah, you can see where this leads. There's gaggles of bland teenaged girls wandering around starstruck, flipping through their dog-eared copies of New Moon and taking pictures of everything that looks even slightly like something in the book.

More than anything, that's my reason for wanting to leave. How sad is that?

Yes, Myles, thank you, I am NOT getting off-track. This is all important. No, I don't mention Twilight again, but my hatred is vital to plot development. Yes, I know you like the books. No, you can't edit this out.

There was one person that made staying in Forks bearable. Who knows, maybe I would have left if she asked me, or maybe I wouldn't have gone to the concert if she'd stayed. When she left, I had every reason in the world to take off, too. But I was a wuss. We'd spent all July and August planning how we'd handle the winter together, eventually deciding that to hell with what her parents thought, she could move in with me. We'd make separate beds, just to keep up appearances.

Her name was Tanya. She was tall, she was a redhead, she was GORGEOUS, and she was human. Why she was going out with me, I'll never really know. We sort of got match-makered at a party when I was trying desperately to ask out her friend. Said friend, it turns out, was already sleeping with two other guys in my class, so that was, as they say, that. Then Tanya and I found ourselves alone on the balcony of Skivvies' house, and someone locked the door and slid the drapes shut, and we knew what the score was.

And against all logic, she decided to give me a try. She was a knockout, she could have had any guy in town, furry or not. Maybe she was, I dunno. I spent almost every spare moment thinking about her, thinking about how I could show her how I felt. She really was the first girl that made me feel all... pink and fuzzy inside, you know the feeling? Like I'm ever so slightly going to be sick, because of all the happy. That sounds lame as all hell, I know. What did you expect? I'm a teenaged guy in Fox Network America.

July came and went, and August, and I thought we were getting along pretty good still. She was going to stay with me over the winter, and she was going to work on her college applications for the next year, since she wanted to take a year off. We played video games (she mostly only liked Tetris, though) and went to a couple movies, but I was fooling myself that we were still getting along like old times. With no more school to fill up our days, we sort of wore out our welcome. I was planning on taking her on a vacation, to try to rekindle the spark, right?

And then it's the end of August, and she tells me she's moving to Seattle. To be with a photographer. That she met online. Apparently they'd met up for a few 'photo shoots' throughout the month, and she loved how he made her look, and... well, I could go into more detail, but I'd rather not. The knockout redhead could have any guy she wanted. And she did.

Anyways, this brings us to... September. Late September by now.

The younger kids are all in school, so the town is barren during the day. There's nothing much happening in a town this small on a school night, so the town's barren when the sun goes down. On weekends, just about the only thing going is Young Gamer Night, which is for people who are even more outcast than ME, and whatever's playing at the rep theater (here's a hint: the last week of September it's 'Into The Blue' and 'Blair Witch'. Yarg.)

The Playstation's off most of the time. The car is parked. The days are getting cooler, and the rainy season (what we call the eleven months when you can't drive a convertible safely) is in full swing. So what's a guy to do? I start walking. Not, like, Forrest Gump or anything. I just started going for walks. We got highways going in every direction, we got state parks and national parks and logging roads, and if I feel up to it, we got La Push a good two hour stroll to the west. There's no shortage of places to walk, day or night. I get to know all the houses that are hidden in the hills, some of them probably worth more than the entire town of Forks, even with our new sparkly-vampire fame. There's gotta be some Hollywood folks camping out in the trees. Maybe Schwarzenegger's got a house up here. That would be sweet.

You know what episode of Duck Dodgers that rips on Samurai Jack? That was me. Walking. Walking. Walking. Walking. Drip. Drip. Drip. Walking. Walking. Walking. Frog. Frog. Walking. Walking.

Yes, I know they get the idea, Myles, I just wanted to quote Samurai Quack. This is my story, and I'll throw in as many pop culture references as I want. When you write your version of how it happened, you can make it all about girly vampires and zombie cheerleaders. OW!

Jerk.

I get a lot of thinking done on my walks. I got my little Creative ZEN (my iPod having bit the dust in an unfortunate snowdrift accident) chock full of rock and metal and whatever else I feel like hearing at the moment, and it's got this sweet screen on it so I can scroll through pictures while I listen to music. Mostly, they're pictures I'm not exactly keen on other people seeing, so I keep that feature a secret. They help me think, though. Unfortunately, lately my thoughts have been turning to the past, turning melancholy. This time of year always reminds me about the past. I'm good at ignoring it, though.

What I'm not good at ignoring, though, are big full-color glossy posters stapled to telephone poles. Those tend to stick out. I'm heading back into Forks from the north, and there's a pervasive drizzle everywhere. Hey, why does Snoop Dogg always carry an umbrella? For drizzle. Anyways, about a click out of town, where the trees start giving away to acre lots and sprawling ranch homes, I see the first poster.

_ Bushfur 08 _ _ Six Bands! _ One Stage! One Night! Mr. Socks Fox Tragic! At The Funeral Paws Held High Marylin Hanson Panthera Lacuna Coyle September 29th 4.4 Miles East of the Forks Stop Light!

My mind did the math, and I figured that was the old Golden Years Farm, which mostly rented itself out to fairs and festivals and such, since the owners, a retired German shepherd couple, didn't mind drinking and carousing and noise to all hours of the night, being stone deaf and all. Anything good that came through town, from inflatable-screen Drive-In Movie nights to Renaissance Fairs to bush parties always ended up there. I don't know why I hadn't heard about this one before, but I wasn't so much concerned with the event, as I was with the last band name.

I know there's loads of Coyles in the world. Danny Coyle made some of my favorite movies (I think he won an Oscar for the one I didn't see), and there was a Coyle's Autobody in Bellingham, but even so... it was a weak spot with me. I stopped and just stared at that poster for close to ten minutes, until a logging truck blew past me on the left and the rainy backwash almost knocked me over. I flipped him off, just out of courtesy, and continued my trek back into town.

I saw five more posters between there and my Fas Gas domicile, but I'd decided to go by the third one.

Chapter Two - I'm Eighteen -------------------------------

I regretted going before I even got there. The sun had gone down about half an hour previous, but there was still that omnipresent azure glow from above, so when I turned off from the highway it was like driving through a strange, alien canyon. The trees were almost butting up to the road, and some of the evergreen branches arced clear from one side to the other. The cars parked on the shoulder made driving faster than ten miles per hour almost impossible, but I persevered, and actually found the Golden Years gates free of blockage. I wasn't too hopeful, but I headed into the field reserved for parking, bordered on three sides by the impenetrable forest, with soil permanently poisoned by leaking transmissions.

I headed out the outside lane, but everywhere was cars and trucks parked almost touching eachother. It would be an utter nightmare when the bush party let out and everyone tried to leave at the same time. I was creeping down the fourth lane when I saw a truck start to pull out, and I said a silent prayer when I pulled into the empty spot, close enough to actually see the glow of the recently-assembled stage.

Walking along through the near-darkness, I started to regret my decision. I could tell from the cars, and from the crowds in the distance, that I was in a serious pink-skinned minority. I knew from the moment I saw the poster, Bushfur was going to be largely fur-bound concert-goers, but when I got in queue about a hundred meters from the opening in the high wood fence, I started to wonder if it was a minority of one. A small group arrived behind me, and the thump of hooves on packed earth accompanied several of them. I glanced back, and saw a couple young fellas, hoss and elk from the looks of it, and two kitties who might have been sisters, black and yellow and sweet-looking.

The line shuffled along slowly. I'd gotten in too late, and now a lot of the latecomers were the 'Oh, man, I forgot my ticket, wanna let me in anyways?' crowd, and they always took forever to sort out. There was a pack of wolves in front of me, most of them wearing matching jackets and casting surreptitious glances back, and I was feeling incredibly self-conscious.

Forks, and most of the smaller towns in rural Washington, were generally at least fifty percent fur, often nearer seventy or eighty. My dad had had a pretty good job with the State Correctional facilities in the area, so we'd settled in Forks, and like me he'd never really been able to leave when his hours started getting rolled back more and more. Even worse, he'd had a thing for furs, which was fine in the bigger cities, where it was considered very 'now', but in the smaller towns it was still frowned upon by nearly everyone concerned. I know the last time I'd been over at his place for a beer, his girlfriend had been over, and they'd both asked me not to tell anyone. I could see why he liked her, though...

I shook my head as the wolves moved as one into the concert grounds, and I was up next. I handed over my ticket, purchased just that morning at the Vinyl Cafe, to the big moose standing guard. Seriously, he was a moose. Top of his head had to be about a foot above mine, and the antlers added another eighteen inches, easily. I was big for a human, but this guy was big for a biped. He looked at the ticket, then looked at me for quite a bit longer than necessary. I stared back, refusing to squirm under his glossy black glare. He tapped the ticket against his hand thoughtfully, clearly mulling something over, before reaching out, stamping my hand, and gesturing for me to go in. I nodded appreciatively, and stepped past him.

My next thought was 'I should have turned around'.

The stage was at the other end of the field, I could just make out what had to be the opening band. They were a speedy punk trio, but at this distance it was just distortion and squealing. I didn't mind... speed punk wasn't my thing. The far third of the field was a solid mass of life, jumping and writhing, and the crowd slowly diffused back to me, where people stood in threes and fours, smoking and drinking and waiting for their band to come on.

And then there was me. Pink, furless, and solitary. This was dumb.

I walked along the south fence, moving closer to the stage but trying to stay just generally out of the way. The closer I got, the more the crowd was focused raptly (with the glaze-eyed stare of the truly 'into it') on the stage, and the easier a time I had going unnoticed. The first band left and the second band took the stage a few minutes later, and I groaned again. Any band with an exclamation mark in their name was bound to suck, but most bands like that usually put on a pretty sweet live show. Someone should have told these guys that.

So far, I was still the only human around, but the crowds were getting thicker, and the cool night air showed the telltale puffs of smoke that indicated that the crowd was probably not going to care what species anyone was. My black jacket (fake leather, of course) had the large internal pockets I loved so much, and when I was sure the handful of black-clad security guys weren't looking, removed a small bottle clearly marked 'Jones Juice - Particularly Pomegranate', and took a few sips from the most-certainly-not-pomegranate juice within. My own drink of choice was vodka and lemon, mostly because it tasted the same with ice, or without.

No, Myles, I wasn't drunk , I was drinking. There's quite a difference. And I'm certainly not A drunk. I can't afford it.

Anyways, to get back to my story, if SOMEONE would let me... I was halfway through the little bottle by the time the Raging Emo Experience or whatever they were called left the stage. The next band was pretty good, if you ignored the exact lyrics. Heavy metal Christian bands are always a little strange, but usually have excellent instrumentation, and the live show was pretty blistering. Their drummer was a squirrel (most of the best rock drummers are!) and the lead guitarist was a black otter with a Gibson doubleneck. The lyrics were pretty easy to ignore, since the speaker stacks were definitely tuned for power and distance, and the grinding riffs made intelligible communication all but impossible.

Near the end of their set, during a screaming song that was improbably called 'Blessed Silence', I started to drift closer to the crowd, my sense of foreboding being replaced by a sense of general alcohol-fueled well-being. The people this far forward were the amiable music lovers who were just here for fun and a good time, and dammit, I was determined to be, too. At least before I tried to drive home while partially-intoxicated and retired in silence and darkness to my cave to mope about being alone. You can tell I had a full weekend planned.

I somehow ended up with a trio of mustelids who were smaller than me, two guys and a girl. Bundled up as they were for the weather, I didn't even know one of them was female for the first few minutes, until one song ended and I could clearly hear her voice. I was a little surprised when one of them nudged me, and I turned to see him offering me a hand-rolled cigarette, one that i was pretty sure had no tobacco in it. I thought about it for a few seconds and decided that since the Fas Gas drug testing policy was 'Just do it outside, ok?', it couldn't hurt. Besides, everyone knew mustelids always had the best skunk.

Myles is bonking his head against the table now. Look, you knew I wasn't perfect, all right? It's a social thing. I can quit anytime I want. Honest, ossifer. I can't keep mentioning you in the story like this, because it's going to get confusing.

I had a pretty good groove going by the time the fifth band showed up, and I started to move towards the front of the crowd when they started to play. This was DEFINITELY more my style of music! I made a mental note to look these guys up when I got back home, see if they had a FaceSpace page, or something. I was jumping and moshing (rather unsteadily) by the third song in their set, being jostled and rocked by the other concert-goers, large and small. I honestly couldn't tell if the music was good or bad... at this range, the sheer decibel level reduced everything to beats and crunching, but I liked beats and crunching, and I liked them a lot more when I was a little tipsy.

Panthera finished up their set, and the all-feline band raised their fists triumphantly to raucous cheers from the massive crowd. My legs were shaking, and I realized that I had expended most of my vodka-power in the mosh put. Shoulders sagged, I stumbled sideways to the safety of the fence, leaning against it gratefully and taking in lungfulls of cool air. I was sweating underneath my coat, which I removed, and instantly felt the clammy night close in around me. I didn't mind, though... the pit had been like a rainforest. How did they mosh with all that fur?!

There was quite a bit of cheering as the roadies set up for the sixth band, far more noise than for the other acts that night, and I wondered if these guys were big league players, or maybe just local hits. I'd never heard of them, but nearly everyone else seemed to have an expectant air about them. My attention was also pretty well focused, despite the assorted chemicals flowing through my system, Polish vodka and Canadian weed, since the very name of this band was the only reason I decided to show up.

It was a stupid reason, I admit. I mean, seeing one word on an entire band poster, and getting all emotional and verklempt and taking a billion-to-one shot that there might be SOME connection, SOMETHING to change the past... the past couldn't be changed. What had happened, had happened. He was gone, and in a world this big, he was probably gone forever.

I pulled out my Jones bottle and took a big swig, wincing as it burned it's way down. I had just fallen into the 'melancholy drunk' stage, and I knew it. I looked around, watching the crowd get more and more excited, and checked my watch, a little surprised to find it closing in on one in the morning. It was damn late.

I gauged the distance to the gates, wondering if I could get there before the music started, suddenly feeling self-conscious and strangely remorseful, when the stage-lights dimmed, and I knew it was too late. The crowd suddenly surged forward, and far from being standing in a little pool of empty space, I found myself being pressed up against the fence by, unless I had missed my guess, that wolf pack from the lineup earlier.

I straightened up, my back popping and my hip grinding a little bit as I assumed my full height. I was larger than the wolves, it turned out, my customary slouch vanishing as I tried to assert myself against the press of the crowd. I cracked my neck once, and sighed as the heat started to return, the furry masses once again omnipresent. The stage lights started to rise as the drummer took the stage, a short, squat, dark-skinned squirrel boy, and started tapping out a light, almost wind-like cymbal roll.

The crowd hushed, an almost palpable air of expectation falling like a down quilt. A leonine guitarist walked out, playing a fast but low-key and almost inaudible riff on low-E. He was long and lean, almost bent over the instrument, body swaying with every flourish, echoed by the drummer's cymbals crashing like waves.

The cheering started at the front, and moved back as the lights slowly increased in brightness, the spots on the microphone coming up full just as a small, vulpine figure gripping a low-slung bass stepped up. Black hair was bundled together in tight braids, almost dreds, and hung everywhere, over his eyes and around his muzzle. The full-neck bass seemed even larger on the diminuitive shirtless figure, his fingers working slowly but nimbly, the rumbling low end finally coming to bear with the other instruments.

The guitarist slowly started to increase power, and the drums began to thump more regularly, the beat to some unfamiliar song building speed. My head was bobbing. There was no doubt, these guys were good. They had presence long before they took the stage, and I wished I'd heard about them before. My eyes were locked on the singing bass-player, though, looking for any clues to his identity, but finding none. From this distance, he looked like any other scruffy fox boy. I craned my neck, trying to see his tail, but also disappointed when it showed the standard size, standard red and grey colorations.

My heart had already fallen, though, when the fox first inched up closer to the microphone. The Coyle I knew could never be the singer of a band. Not because he was shy, or because he wasn't into music. Far from it. Anytime we were together, and indoors, the radio was cranked up, and his head was bobbing. No, the Coyle I knew would never step up to a microphone, simply because he was incapable of speech.

I tried to drown my dismay with the enjoyable spectacle as all three members of the band seemed to leap into the air, and the song exploded through the speakers. The guitar wailed, and the bass player's heavily-distorted growl seemed to leap around like a wild animal, while the drummer's arms became a blur. I recognized the riffs, though, and had to smile to myself when the instrumentation dropped off again, and the fox stepped up to the microphone.

_ Lines form on my face and hands, Lines form from the ups and downs. I'm in the middle without any plans. I'm a boy, and I'm a man..._

"I'm eighteen!" The crowd chanted in time with the song, with me joining right in. The field was a mass of leaping, cheering fans as the song plowed on, and I became an instant fan. The singer's voice was incredible, sweet and soothing during the breakdowns, growling and forceful during the chorus, but always soaring above the collective overdriven noise of the speaker stacks, echoing back and forth between the trees.

Eighteen! I get confused every day

Eighteen! I just don't know what to say Eighteen! I gotta get away

The music seemed to fade, lingering briefly in my head. The lights dimmed, except for the lone spot on the singer. His head was down, the very posture of broken sadness. He nuzzled the microphone, and began to croon.

Lines form on my face and my hands Lines form on the left and right I'm in the middle the middle of life I'm a boy and I'm a man...

With a wail like a supersonic jet passing overhead, the guitar roared back to life, and the singer's voice was almost overpowered by the crowd's screaming. Almost.

_ I'm Eighteen and I LIKE IT _ Yes I like it Oh I like it Love it, Like it Love it, Eighteen! Eighteen! _ Eighteen! _ _ I'm Eighteen and I LIKE IT!!! _

My cheers joined the mindless legions, five thousand people losing their minds all at once as the trio took a bow in the last moments of the song, but before the last cymbal crash even had time to roll through the audience, they dove right into their next song, which I recognized as well. So they were a cover band... I didn't care in the slightest. I hadn't smiled this much since school had let out, and I knew that I'd be humming these songs for a week, at least.

The collected furs (and single human) began to sway and grind at the sweet-sounding vocals, which contrasted jarringly with the lyrics themselves. In front of me, one of the mustelid punkers who had been so generous with her weed wrapped her arms around herself, eyes closed, tongue lolling out, and I wondered what memories this song might have held for her.

Hey vanity, This vial is empty So are you Hey glamorous, This vial is not God any more Yeah!

This time, I was the first into the air, coming down heavily, hair flying, and screaming along with the unknown singer.

_ Speak _... I don't get it! Should I ignore your fashion Or go by the book! I don't want it I just want your eyes fixated on me Come back... I'm coming back around the fur...

The nu-metal classic had become anthemic for the youth of the fuzzy generation. You couldn't listen to a heavy metal station or flip through music video television without seeing the original track. Hell, you couldn't even see cars without 'Around The Fur' bumper stickers. If I'd been smarter, I'd have been nervous, since the song traditionally accompanied pro-fur/ anti-human sentiments, but the music made rational thought impossible. Besides, I came out of that mosh pit without any serious scratches (except with a tigress grabbed my ass. Sharply. Still dunno why she did that.)

The next three songs were originals, though most of the crowd seemed to know them. I vowed to track down their album, since there had to be copies floating around somewhere. No-one attracted this sort of following without publishing, even if it was self-publishing. Hell, maybe they'd sell them at the kiosks by the gate! I smiled to myself, working my way slowly back to the fence, needing a break from the constant jostling. Next concert, I promised myself, less alcohol and more moshing. This was starting to rank up there for best hour of my life.

The very final song struck it's final chord, and the guitarist and drummer walked up to the lead singer. The three put their heads together, and a deafening "THANK YOU AND GOODNIGHT!" was met with a resounding cacophany of approval. I smiled, and started to turn around, scanning for the souvenier kiosks, when the lead singer lifted his arm, and I froze.

His arm came up like a salute, his fuzzy fingers flashing three symbols with lightning speed, before balling into a fist and tapping himself on the forehead. He threw out his hand dramatically and waved, grinning hugely, eyes finally free from his dreds, before turning to head offstage with his bandmates. The crowd began the long, slow shuffle backwards as real life began to drift back in, but I was frozen in place.

The eyes. The sign language, with the little head bump. It was unmistakable. It was perfect. It was him.

"Myles," I said hoarsely, before dizziness overtook me, and I slumped to the earth.