Brad drove home in the battered Toyota, the rattle-rattle-clang-clang of the ancient motor overpowering the radio. He pumped the brakes several times before grinding to a stop. Brad turned the key and waited while the car chuffed for ten seconds, billowing noxious blue smoke. His amp and guitar occupied the spot in back where the baby seat would go.

The three-month tour with the Dirtbombs was pure bliss. They’d held their own with the world’s best jam band, schmoozed with some labels and agents. But they’d been home two weeks now, and nothing. Emma was already showing, and they needed insurance. He remembered the job interview today and shuddered. Insurance call center. He felt his soul leaking.

He walked in the door and tossed his jacket and tie over the recliner. Emma stood up, looking pale. “You got something in the mail, looks like a bill."

Brad wanted to turn around, walk back out, but picked up the official looking envelope. He fought the urge to drop it and run, and pulled open the thick packet of papers. A contract from the Dirtbombs label, with a check.

Emma’s puffy face showed concern. “You okay?”

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