“When are you going to start playing again, Mike?” She asked as she topped off the cup of black coffee and sat across from him at Bob Evans.

Mike rubbed his hands across his nearly bald scalp. He was searching for an answer that would pacify his big sister. He went with the usual protest.

“I don’t have time for that now. When I’m not pushing papers at my desk, I’m splitting firewood to sell or running my son to ball practice.” He sipped his coffee and reached for the salt shaker.

Leslie reminded him about his blood pressure with a finger and a nod. “You used to play French horn beautifully. We were in marching band together. You loved it.”

“That was 25 years ago.” He peered over his bifocals and dug into his Egg Beaters.

“Yeah, before the ulcers, the stress, and the high cholesterol. Don’t you want to eat real salt and real eggs again someday?”

Michael laughed and grabbed the check from the waitress.

“No, this is on me,” Leslie insisted. “Save your money for the music store.”