Galen smiles and watches her look through from behind his mug. Five years and two albums, and he still waits for the initial reaction. The book is filled with handwriting, of course; verses, notes, red ink, scribbled out lines, small musical notations. The second-last written-in page says something about writing a rock opera about a roguishly handsome solo stealer from the dark alleys of New York. Don't ask.

"I almost forgot that you're a drummer." Didn't forget! Just almost. "So what was the song like?"