Nixy wiped the bar down slow, the way she always did near closing. She had run this place long enough to know who walked through her door and why. People came here when a choice was eating them alive. Her job, the one she had given herself, was to lay out the real cost and let them pick. The door opened. A man stepped in, road-dusted, jacket worn at the cuffs. The two regulars turned on their stools, plaid and denim, and stared the way old dogs do at a stranger. He didn't look at them. He crossed the floor and sat down on the stump near the end of the bar. His hands stayed in his lap, closed around something pale and folded. "Beer," he said. Nixy poured one and set the mug in front of him. He laid the thing in his hands on the wood between them. A scrap of baby blanket, pale blue, small white stars, edges chewed soft by years of small fingers. He smoothed it flat with his thumb. "My boy is dying," Luke said. He did not look up. "I heard you trade. I've got one thing left worth anything. I play. I'll give you that. All of it. Take the music. Leave him here." He finally met her eyes. "Tell me your price."