Thumb on brass doorknob and I can already feel the vibrations of the bass amp resonating. My guitar bag is heavy on my back. My throat is hoarse. I cough. Twice. I think about turning around and going home. I shake my head. It's so loud when I enter. It's the definition of noise: kids strewn across amps and cables, tuning their guitars, banging on drums, trumpet practice, jewelry rattling, "Has anybody seen my phone? Did you steal my phone, dude?", cameras flashing, 15 seconds of the most dramatic section of an alt-pop song on loop on a tiktok. "You gave us up—but we're forever baby—forever baby—forever baby—" I cover my ears on instinct. The sound fades slowly, delayed somehow. The room is settling. Kids are looking at me. Genie is looking at me. "You're back," he says, "and you brought your guitar." I'm dizzy with the stimuli, nerves, and a lack of sleep. "Yeah. I'm gonna play." As I unload my guitar and begin setting up, I feel their eyes on me. Are they hopeful? Do they pity me? I practiced all night, but I don't know if it will be enough. My fingers are numb as I put them in position. The kids are quiet by the time I'm ready, but I can hear my heart thrum, and the AC hums loudly. I need to cut through this noise. I need to make sure my sound reaches them.