He let the last chord fade away. For a moment, there was only sound. He was the creator and part of his creation. His heart and soul was in that final, fading note.

He opened his eyes and looked out at the crowd. They had felt it, too. When they cheered the music, they were cheering for him.

He stood and fumbled for the microphone, “That’s all I got.” The crowd was into it. They wanted more. He couldn’t give it to them. “I’m going home to die.”

He carried his guitar off the stage to a mix of cheers and demands for more. He wanted more, but it took all he had to get off the stage.

The dizziness came again as he walked down the alley. His chest hurt and he wanted to get out of the cold. He clutched the wall with a bare, black hand. Working hands. He had a coughing fit that brought up more blood. Time to die.

Naturally, it was Eliza that found him first. From Natchez to Chicago, she was at his side. The cops found Eliza in the alley cradling him like an old lover. Like he cradled his guitar.