On the armrest of the sofa in the private booth, …

Tonight’s gathering was just to help a friend make up the numbers. Eleanor Vance couldn’t even remember how many people ended up in the private room. As the lyrics on the screen changed from one song to the next, she stayed tucked into the corner of the sofa sipping ice water, listening to other people’s off-key howling making her eardrums numb. Then a guy in a dark gray hoodie turned from the song-selection screen, walked straight over, sat down beside her, and pressed a mic into her hand. His name was Malcolm Reed. When he smiled, the outer corners of his eyes curved down slightly. Fingers tapping a rhythm against his knee, he tilted his head and asked, “You haven’t sung a single song all night, have you?”