As the circular crowd of angular, awkward teenagers missed the timing, we spotted Harriet and Mr Reynolds in the middle of the throng.
There were a couple of abandoned old sheds, and a few trees. A cow pen. The place was littered with old glass bottles, tin cans, parts of things. All of it became mine. My teenage refuge.
Today I heard Vaughn Benjamin was dead. For a moment, I became one perfect bubble, rippling in the light air, bursting its tears on the windows of a loud train.
We never rehearsed, or even discussed what we would play; we just dove into the river of music and let it carry us along. Ross' playing was so in the moment, and each time we performed it felt like it was for the first time.