He poked at his sandwich. In the small café and sandwich shop across the street from the sheriff’s office, the pelt of a beaver hung on the wall above a display case of huckleberry jams and syrups. “Now what?” Alan asked. He dropped a potato chip next to his half-eaten sandwich.

“We wait,” said Mickey. “Use the time to build our case.” The chubby lawyer took a bite of his onion and roast beef hoagie, causing mustard and mayonnaise to ooze out the side onto his thumb, which he sucked clean with a wet pop. He took a swig of his Coke to wash it all down before tossing a French fry into his mouth.

“It doesn’t seem like we have much of a case,” said Alan.

“Nor do they,” said the lawyer. “I’m no shrink, but as far as I can tell, nothing happened. A big, fat nothing burger. Now, this kid suddenly goes mute like she’s a Greta or something. It doesn’t add up. I’m starting to think it harbors a racial element. You know, Native American kid gets a White girlfriend, and it rubs someone the wrong way. Everyone knows the sheriff’s department is snuggle-buddies with the High Mountain Rangers militia. And to garnish it with a golden cherry, the girlfriend just happens to be the daughter of a powerful right-wing politician.” Mickey wiped his hands with a dirty napkin.

It was plausible to Alan. In the Mission Valley, race relations had grown bitter along with the water crisis.

But there was another piece to the puzzle that didn’t quite fit. “Why the hell does the daughter of one of the most powerful men in America go to a public school on an Indian reservation?”

“Hell, that one’s easy, Doc. Politics. She started school there two years ago, about the time Taylor and Allgood made their power pact. The one thing the elites want that they can’t buy is not to look like elites. Before that, she was enrolled in one of the most expensive private schools in New York.” Mickey took the final bite of his sandwich and spoke as he chewed, “You sure White Owl didn’t mention anything else?”

“She made me laced tea and told me a story about Coyote and eyeballs and told me to bear testimony.”

Mickey raised his bushy eyebrows above the black rims of his glasses. “Now that, I say, is an angle.” He smacked his hands together. “Feel like a milkshake?”

“No. That woman could use some therapy if you ask me.”

“She sounds like a Mormon. I used to have a Mormon friend when I was a kid. I’d go to church with them sometimes. You know, for the food and girls. Mormon girls!” Mickey whistled. “Anyway, they were always giving a testimony, as they called it. Sort of a confession of faith, I guess.”

Alan looked out the window. The parking lot was busy for a Sunday afternoon. “I need to go see him—”

The door to the café burst open. A woman entered wearing a biker jacket and leather riding chaps. She was followed by a boy in similar attire, motorcycle goggles shoved up on his forehead.

“Excuse me,” she said to no one in particular, “anyone know where the concert is?”

“Sorry, ma’am,” said the girl behind the counter. “I haven’t heard of any concert.”

“Okay, but the GPS says it’s here. Actually, it says it’s at the jail across the street, but that can’t be right. I figured maybe in your parking lot.”

“Nope, no concert here. I think I’d know. Is there a website or something?”

“Billy, honey, run and grab the poster from the bike.”

The boy, who looked to be about twelve, slammed the door behind him. The waitress cringed as the jars of huckleberry jam clinked on the rack.

“We’ve been riding for five days. I don’t think we can go much farther without killing each other. I don’t know what’s colder, the weather, or our relationship.”

“Tell me about it, girl,” chatted the waitress. “Got a daughter about his age. I can never tell if it’s war or ceasefire.”

The women laughed in motherly understanding.

Mickey made the loopy sign with his finger next to his forehead and popped a French fry into his mouth.

The door banged against the wall, and the jars clinked loudly.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“Here it is, Mom!” The boy handed the poster to the waitress, who read it out loud.

Are You Thirsty?

Free Concert for Tree Lovers

Builds A Fire

Brings the Rain

Mickey choked, sending Coke and chunks of French fry across the table.

The waitress handed the poster back. “Sounds interesting, but I haven’t heard a peep about this. And I’m kind of a know-it-all. It’s part of the job. Good luck to you, though.”

The mother let out a long sigh. “Come on, kiddo, we’ll look around some more.”

“Excuse me,” Alan said to the woman, “you say you’ve been driving for five days?”

“Riding, actually. We would have been here sooner, but we had engine trouble down south.”

The boy shot his mother a look, hinting to Alan that something was being fabricated. More than likely, they’d run into family drama.

“Can I see that poster?”

“Sure, keep it. He’s got another one somewhere.”

Alan examined the poster. “Where did you get this?”

“They were on the wall at the skate park,” the boy piped up.

“He really got into this guy’s music about a year ago. He’s been bouncing off the walls for this for a couple months.”

Alan showed the poster to Mickey.

There was a painting of a kid on a shadowy stage, indistinct phantoms lurking behind him. His head bent forward in concentration. He was in profile, and he had Francis’s iconic raven wing of hair that was always falling across his face. In his hands was the blue guitar White Owl had given him. The guitar that now sat in the back of his car.

Alan read slowly, “Are you thirsty? Free concert for tree lovers. Builds A Fire Brings the Rain. Nov. 1, 7 PM.”

At the bottom of the poster was a QR code. Mickey scanned it, and it brought up his phone’s GPS. The map zoomed down on Montana and zeroed in on the building across the street. LAKE COUNTY SHERIFF DEPT.

“Come on,” said Alan.

When they got to his car, Mickey was ranting. “It’s got to be a hoax. Probably a sick plot by one of those internet vigilante groups. I’m calling Judge Myers. This case was supposed to have a gag order.” He whipped out his phone and began to dial.

“Just wait. Look.” Alan pointed to the back seat of his car.

Mickey looked perplexed.

“Five days ago, Francis was a normal eighth-grade student. None of this had happened. That woman said they’d been planning the trip for two months.”

“Timeline malfunction,” said Mickey.

“We need to—”

“What the hell is that?” The lawyer pointed across the parking lot to an old white and blue Volkswagen van. A camp chair and smoking barbecue were set up outside of it. A hippie with gray dreadlocks played an air guitar. He was smoking a marijuana cigarette.

When they approached, the hippie gave them a friendly salute and took a drag of his joint, blowing the smoke into the air.

“Sir,” said Mickey, “that’s not legal in the state of Montana.”

“Oh yeah? I remember when it was. Besides, it’s medicinal, dude,” drawled the hippie.

“Really, what for?” asked Mickey.

“Existential angst, maaaaan.” He took one last drag and flicked the roach into a mud puddle where it died with a sizzle.

“Florida?” said Mickey, referring to the van’s license plates.

“Burned and razed.”

“What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

“Oh, the same thing that brings me anywhere. Good music and good bud! Despite current legislation, y’all got the best weed in the lower forty-seven and the Independent Jurisdiction of Texas.” He hit a chord on his air guitar and plopped into the camp chair. “What is this anyway, the fucking Inquisition? You don’t look much like a cop, man. I wanna see a badge number, buddy. I know my rights.”

“Lawyer,” said Mickey. “But if you aren’t careful, there’s a mean bastard over there who’ll lock you up before hello. Then you’ll be paying me.” Mickey extended his business card.

“Mickey Verona, Esquire, huh? I’ll keep you in mind, son.”

“Alan,” Alan said, extending his hand.

The hippie shook it with a firm grip. “Another lawyer?”

“Nope,” Mickey blurted, “Unemployed psychologist.”

“Sir, that will not shrink my opinion of you. Name’s Carter Nash, but everyone calls me Nash, and this here beautiful lady is Ol’ Betsy.” With a gesture of his arm, he dramatically presented the van.

“So, you’re here for the—”

“Free concert. You bet yer sweet p’tater. Wouldn’t miss a Builds A Fire concert for the world. A real experience, know what I’m sayin?”

“You’ve heard him play before?” said Mickey.

“Just once. Two years ago up in Spokane. The kid lit the house on fire. And that’s putting it mildly. His music changed my life. I’ve been a follower ever since.”

“Never heard of him,” said Mickey.

“He’s just a lil squirt, but his music is outta this world! But Builds A Fire ain’t for everyone. Kind of an underground phenomenon.”

“You got a song?” asked Alan.

“Sure, let me play one of my favorites.”

The hippie climbed into Ol’ Betsy. The speakers crackled to life, then did nothing. He emerged bumping his chin to a song playing only in his head.

Alan looked at Mickey. The lawyer rolled his eyes.

“Are you trolling? I don’t hear anything,” said Alan.

“Probably cause you ain’t listenin,” said Nash. “You oughta come to the concert tonight. The music grows on you. It’s the launch of his first tour. But don’t say I told you. That’s some inside gossip from his label.”

“He’s got a label?” Mickey said.

“Yep, White Owl Records. Groovy name, right?” The man went back to jamming out to the unheard music.

As they walked back to his car, Alan noticed the parking lot was starting to bustle with activity.

A plump woman with purple hair was selling blue guitar t-shirts out of the trunk of her car. The biker mom and her biker son were picking through them.

“You know that moment when you realize you’re completely out of the loop?” said Mickey.