The bus station’s dusty and so is the old man sitting in it. He actually has dust on him. Newsom tries not to stare, looking instead for a place to set his bag.

There’s an inexplicable piano on one wall; it, too, is dusty, but the key cover’s open. After ten minutes of wall-watching, Newsom gives in and plonks a key.

It’s out of tune–he knows that immediately. He draws back, but an old crow-voice says “Play somethin’.”

“I don’t know–”

“It does.”

Newsom hesitantly tries a chord, which is when he realizes it is in tune. With itself.