Free Coda by Emma Trevayne

thinks we’re good enough.”
    Yellow Guy’s eyes widen, like he’s surprised he’s suddenly part of the argument. Idiot. “He—” says Johnny, then stops. I’ve probably been rude enough to Yellow Guy for both of us.
    Whatever, I’m still kind of mad at Scope.
    “It’s not about being good enough, Phoenix.”
    “What do you guys think?” Phoenix asks. It’s not really her place, and I glance at Johnny, who shrugs.
    Mage twirls his drumsticks through nimble fingers. “I’m just here to play, girl. Don’t need anything but that.”
    “Anthem?”
    Across the room, I catch Scope’s eye. He’s tapping his bottles too quietly to make any sound. “I think it’s Johnny’s band,” I say after a minute. “He’s in charge.”
    “Because that’s what you think, or because it’s Johnny?”
    I glare at her because I don’t know how I feel anymore.
    “I agree with Phoenix,” Scope says. Yellow Guy smiles, and Phoenix grins, triumphant.
    “You want to play for other people, go legit or find another band,” Johnny tells them. “They’re out there, hiding for a reason just like we do.”
    “What about a few others? Not many, enough to fit in here,” Scope suggests.
    “A few more , you mean?” he asks, gaze flicking to Yellow Guy. “No. You want to do this, you do it without me.”
    Phoenix presses her lips together and turns away. The argument seems over, at least for today, though I doubt she’s totally given up.
    Johnny picks up the rag and drapes it over his guitar, a funereal shroud. “You still coming over?”
    “Ready when you are.”
    We climb up through the trapdoor, out, head away from the warehouse under the deceptively open sky. It stretches a lot farther than we ever will.
    “It’s not that I don’t get it,” he says quietly, looking around as we approach a corner. His eyes are gray, like he takes in more of reality than the rest of us do. “Playing for people, I get that. But it’s risky, and we all have a lot to lose.”
    “Yeah,” I say. “Don’t you wonder what it’d be like, though?”
    “Sometimes. Then I remember it wouldn’t be worth it if it’s the last time I ever get to play at all.”
    Or hear music at all.
    White pods pass each other smoothly on the streets—long ones for transporting commuters, little, almost square ones for guards and maintenance crews. No one gives us more than passing appraisal, just two guys walking on a sunny day. I turn my face upward to absorb the warmth.
    Maybe he’s right. Half the time I only know what day of theweek it is because of the proximity to Wednesday. Jeopardizing that is stupid.
    “Stop moping,” he chides, bumping my shoulder with his. “We have a secret from them. That’s the biggest fuck you there is. Think of how much work it’s gonna be for them to edit our memories.”
    I laugh, a sound right for the weather. “Okay. But you know Phoenix won’t give up on the idea.”
    “Phoenix isn’t happy unless she’s bitching about something. It’s part of her charm. C’mon, in. Got stuff to show you.”
    Johnny’s place is a single room on the top floor of an ancient brown building. Scanners outside other doors wink at us like knowing red eyes on our way up the stairs—watching, waiting. At the end of a silent hallway he opens his door and I follow him inside, weaving through the cramped furniture and mess. He shifts a stack of library books from the couch to the bed to make room for me, and then goes to the tiny kitchen in the corner opposite the hygiene cube. Boots and black sweaters jumble haphazardly on the floor. Every surface is piled with the strange things he collects: wires, pebbles, flowers from the park now dried out and crisp. Nothing’s changed in the few months since I was last here.
    I think it looks more like a home than my apartment.
    Steam slicks the window above a pot of water just starting to boil. Johnny lifts it from the stove and carefully fills two chipped mugs, sending a thick waft of