Free Exile by Kevin Emerson Page A

smiles at me, but it’s a lame one, Fret Face in firm control. “I just feel like it’s too personal. I mean, too honest. What fun is that?”
    “Um, how about the fact that people are going to totally connect to it? Feel inspired by it?”
    “Or laugh at how”—he makes air quotes—“ sensitive it is.”
    “Oh, please.”
    He shakes his head. “It definitely does not seem like a Trial by Fire song.”
    “Well, I disagree, and I’m going to keep disagreeing until you change your mind.” I let it go for now though.
    I wait until we have bowls of frozen yogurt piled with toppings (peanut-butter cups, gummy bears, chocolate sauce, and whipped cream for me; Caleb is chocolatesprinkles only), and are seated at a table outside to ask: “So, now do I get the dish ?”
    But Caleb is a long way from his last smile. He’s been tightening up by the second. Does he even remember the joke? Instead, he puts that old gig bag up on the table between us.
    And as he opens it, he says, “I got a letter from my dad.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
    ..................................................................
7
    MoonflowerAM @catherinefornevr 10m
Seriously reconsidering whether I believe in ghosts.
    “You what?”
    “My mom gave this to me on my birthday,” says Caleb, pointing to the bag “It was Eli’s old gig bag. He left it in Randy’s car the day he died.”
    “Your uncle Randy knew Eli?”
    “Yeah. Randy and my d—Eli were in a band together earlier in high school. That’s how my mom met Eli. Randy wasn’t part of Allegiance, but they still hung out. My mom said that after I was born, Randy was key in getting Eli to pitch in.”
    None of this sounds like it makes Caleb very happy.
    He continues: “They’d been hanging out in theafternoon, and Eli forgot the bag in the car. Randy wanted me to have it.”
    “It’s pretty cool,” I say, running a finger over the cracked seams. “Looks like it’s seen some real action.” There are shreds of a sticker on the side, it maybe says Below Zero, but chunks are missing.
    Caleb opens the bag. “It had his old pedals and cables in it. One really cool phaser pedal that I might use. But there’s also a pocket in the lining on the side. I don’t think Randy ever even noticed it.” Caleb zips it open.
    And pulls out a piece of paper with a ragged edge.
    He places the page between us, turning it around so I can read the scratchy handwriting. “This was written by Eli,” says Caleb. He points to the torn edge. “Looks like he ripped it out of a journal. Do you know about that book called On the Tip of Your Tongue ? It’s the collected journals of Allegiance to North. Mom has it at home. I checked this against Eli’s handwriting. It looks exactly the same. But then the last entry in the book from Eli is dated July eleventh, 1998.”
    I look at the page. Top corner, a scrawled date: “July fourteenth.”
    “That was the night of the Hollywood Bowl show. On that last tour. The last show they ever played in LA.” Caleb’s face is white. “Read it.”
    I hunch over it. I’m wary of reading. My insides are spinning. I don’t like this proximity to the words of a dead man.
    To you who don’t know me:
    I guess it’s fitting that now I wish I could talk to you, wish I could hold you, but of course I can’t. And while I’m off making a mess of everything, you’re somewhere learning your first words, your first steps .
    I’d come see you, if I could. Duck out this greenroom door and grab a bus, use a fake name, never come back, but I can’t. I should . . . but I just filled my vein and I don’t want you to see your daddy like this .
    Gotta do something though . . .
    They’re after me .
    I’m not supposed to know but I do. Art becomes business becomes lies. The soul dies. We don’t know it’s dead until it’s long since slipped from us, and we look back and see it waving sadly, as we move on, hollow inside .
    I’ve