“Copper! Copper!”

It took a bit, but somehow my dad’s voice penetrated the soundproof headphones clamped to my temples. He can do things like that. I set my Les Paul (aka Baby Gibs) on the little single bed I sat on and tramped down the stairs.

Our kitchen was a small but, as Dad called it, “cozy” affair, with a four-person dining table in the middle and a narrow counter occupied by the stovetop, sink, and rusty toaster. Dad sat sorting envelopes at the island.

“Hey, Copper, pick up a loaf of bread down at the Kwik-E-Mart, would ya?” He threw me the keys to the Civic. I caught them and chewed on a banana.

“Be right back,” I said, and the door shut.