Naomi was at the sink. She heard the latches and did not turn around. She kept washing the same plate. Behind her, a single note sounded—thin, unsure, then steadier. Another note. A scale that stumbled and continued. She finished the plate and dried her hands and still did not turn, because turning felt like startling a bird. When the playing stopped, she looked. Isaiah sat on the edge of the couch, instrument in his lap, eyes wet and furious with himself.
"It sounds stupid," he said.
"It sounds like beginning again," Naomi said. "Beginning again is allowed."
He played ten minutes. Then fifteen. The next night, twenty. Mr. Vargas, when Naomi called, cried a little on the phone and said of course, of course, bring him Thursday. At the first lesson in Vargas's small studio above a bakery, Isaiah's embouchure shook. Vargas did not mention Millbrook. He spoke only of air and posture and the kindness of long tones. On the walk home, Isaiah said, "He didn't ask."
"I told him not to," Naomi said.
"Thanks."