“Do it again.”

The voice was harsh, rough with the edges of anger and disappointment. I struggled not to shiver, my muscles protesting their mistreatment. A heaviness ebbed through me as I reached out, my fingers brushing the cool metal of my instrument. I took too long to settle and I felt the sigh as I heard it. Then came the whistle of something thin and flexible slicing through the air, the only warning I got before a line of fire opened on my shoulder.

Gritting my teeth, I forced my attention to narrow to my fingertips. Was that a scratch in the metal? I moved my finger slightly, committing the textural feature to memory and felt my hand curve more comfortably against the keys.

Heavy, damp air filled my lungs and I tasted the fear and depression that filled the building. Another whistle and crack against my shoulder. I bit my cheek, then lifting my instrument to my lips, I coaxed a soft, but solid note into the air.

Strength flushed through me. I had finally found my center, and my music.