I was eleven years old when I started high school. My mother told everyone I was thirteen—'for your own good,' she said. Books were my friends, equations my refuge. But when I found a stash of rock records under Anita’s bed after she left, something cracked open inside me.

Now, sitting in the back of a van with Stillwater, the bass vibrating through my ribs, I realize I’ve been running toward a truth I can’t name. Russell glances at me from the front seat. 'You really a journalist, kid?'

I grip my notebook. 'I am if you say I am.'

Penny leans in, her voice soft. 'Then write this down: the first rule of rock and roll is that nobody knows the rules.'

The road stretches ahead. I can turn back now—or keep writing.