Vince threw his toolbox in the back of the car, having finally convinced Mrs. Heffernan that he really was full and that he really did have to go. He walked around the car and climbed in. When he cranked it up, Led Zeppelin’s “Good Times, Bad Times” started playing.

“Awesome! My favorite song!” he said to himself.

His guitar, a black Gibson Les Paul, rested in the seat beside him. He reached over and strummed the open strings. Vince loved his guitar almost as much he loved Carla. He bought it when he was 12. He had to get a job cutting grass to buy it. It was worn in, scratched up, and beat to hell. It was the kind of worn-in that makes a guitar look better, look more loved.

It had been a part of him ever since he bought it. Vince played it everyday. If he wanted to get a certain sound out of it, he knew exactly what knobs to turn and what strings to hit. He could coax moans of pleasure or screams of absolute pain out of it.

He loved this guitar, almost like a father would love a son.