“Now don’t play the song,” Lucas said. “Just make one sound. Any sound.”
Stephen almost smiled. “That’s a very low standard for a military musician.”
“I’m off the clock.”
Stephen set the mouthpiece.
The note came out rough and low.
He stopped in surprise.
“That was terrible.”
“It existed.”
“Still sound like my father.”
“Occupational hazard.”
They tried again.
The second note cracked.
The third held.
Stephen’s sister left the car and walked closer, stopping several yards away. She did not interrupt.
Stephen played the first four notes of the marked line, missed the fifth, and lowered the trumpet.
“I can’t do this here.”
Lucas looked toward Harold’s grave.
“Okay.”
Stephen blinked. “That’s it?”
“You asked me to stay beside you. I can stay while you stop too.”
The words landed differently than Lucas intended.
Stephen sat down.
“My dad never knew how to let me stop.”
His sister spoke from behind them.
“That’s not completely fair.”
Stephen’s shoulders tightened.
She came closer.
“I’m not saying he was easy,” she said. “I’m saying you two turned every lesson into a contest about who would quit first.”
Stephen looked at her. “You weren’t the one holding the trumpet.”
“No. I was the one listening from the kitchen while both of you pretended you weren’t crying.”
