“Stand up, Will,” Miko said.
Will stood, the smile gone, his face suddenly unsure. Miko stepped forward, her arms outstretched.
“Don’t say I,” she said.
Will looked at her, confused. Miko enfolded Will in her arms, wrapping him in a tight embrace. Will awkwardly patted her betweenthe shoulder blades.
“Dammit, Will, just hug me back,” Miko said, the words somewhat muffled by Will’s chest.
Will surrendered to the small woman’s gesture and circled his arms around her. They stood like that for thirty seconds, whileHamza watched.
Finally, Miko released Will and stepped back, sniffling a little.
“You need people,” Miko said. “You might think you don’t, you might wish you didn’t, but no one can deal with all this alone.And since Hamza and I already know, and we love you, we’re going to help you whether you want us to or not.”
Will gazed at her.
“Let’s go home,” Miko said.
Part III
Spring
Chapter 21
Will felt the pattern under his fingers, deep in the pocket, quarter notes locked in sync with the bass drum. Nothing he neededto think about, just a line to play under the solos, holding down his end of the song’s foundation. He glanced at Jorge Cabrera,whose eyes were closed, his arms extended toward his keys as he entered minute five of his solo over the verse changes tothe Talking Heads’ “Psycho Killer.”
He shifted his gaze to the audience, just indistinct silhouettes against the stage lights shining in his face, although hecould see Hamza and Miko sitting at a little table to the left. He sent them an entirely sincere smile.
In the weeks since Uruguay, they’d both been pushing him—shoving, really—toward some kind of distraction from the endlesseffort to try to understand what the Site was doing to the world. All three of them were working on it, studying news reports,making spreadsheets . . . but it just felt futile.
The scale of the Site’s plan was obviously vast, a densely coordinated global effort, constantly in motion. Evolving into . . .something. And the team trying to understand that evolution, maybe even stop it, included a failed musician, a grade-schoolteacher, and an ex-investment banker.
It was like trying to play chess in a pitch-dark room, where you had to determine your opponent’s moves by sense of smellalone. And you had a cold. And your opponent was God.
Futile.
But still, they plugged away, dutifully studying the board, trying to win a game they didn’t and most likely couldn’t understand.
Hamza and Miko had each other. They could share the weight of learning that the Oracle’s predictions had almost certainlyresulted in the rise of the Sojo Gaba movement in Niger, and the subsequent U.S. bombing campaign that was slowly but surelypulverizing that nation in an attempt to destroy its leader while giving President Green a new hook upon which to hang hisreelection campaign. Or the slow, endless downward spiral of the global economy. Or any of the other things the Site was doingto the world. They could share that weight.
Will was alone. His friends knew that, and they had concerns. Possibly justified concerns, after what they’d seen him do inUruguay.
And so, they had gently suggested, then firmly suggested, then flat out insisted that he find an outlet for his Oracle-relatedtensions, which led to Will calling Jorge and asking to sit in at one of his Sunday jam nights.
They were always held at the same club—the Broken Elbow, down in the Village. A rotating cast of New York’s musical eliteattended, whoever wasn’t on tour or booked somewhere, just to catch up with one another, trade gossip, and play a bit. Technically,anyone could ask to sit in—it was an open mic—but you got up on that stage at your peril. Jorge called a song, and the bandplayed it, and that was it. No rehearsal, no prior discussion. If you couldn’t hold up your end, no one would be a dick aboutit, but you were out of the cool kids’ club, without much hope of ever getting back in.
Playing at that moment were, among other luminaries, two musicians from the SNL band and a guitarist who had laid down studiotracks for at least three top-ten singles in the past year. And Will Dando on the bass, holding down the line. Sitting inthat pocket.
He felt light. He wasn’t the Oracle. He was just a musician, on a stage with some of the best players in New York City, holdinghis own.
The song wrapped up, clanging through the snarl of little guitar licks and drum fills and sax squeals that tended to end jamslike this, culminating in one big punctuation mark hit on the snare. The four men and one woman onstage started removing theirinstruments, placing them on stands, trading nods and in-jokes and subtly joyous appreciation of one another’s skill.
Will turned to Jorge.
“Okay if I do one during the break? Just something I’ve been playing around with. Want to see how it works with the audience.”
Jorge hesitated—this was a breach of etiquette. It wasn’t an originals night, it was a covers jam, and moreover, no one wassupposed to be featured. Even more, if someone was going to get a feature, Will Dando probably wasn’t first on that list.
But Jorge shrugged and clapped Will on the shoulder.
“Sure, man,” he said. “Have fun. I’m glad you came out tonight. You’ve been missed. Not the same without you. Let’s talk after,too—I’ve got some gigs I’d like to put you up for.”
He gestured at the microphone at the front of the stage.
“All yours.”
Will moved to the center of the stage, pulling a few of his effects pedals over from his amp and arranging them in front ofthe microphone stand. He tapped a few—a loop, a thick layer of distortion and some chorus—and tested the sound as the restof the band left the stage and headed for the bar.
A bark of snarling distortion whipped out across the club, fading into pedal-assisted echoes. Will could see the front rankof the audience lean back a bit, all at once, as if they’d all been hit by a blast of arctic wind.
“This is a new song,” Will said. “It’s
