The tour bus hissed, sputtered, and died somewhere in the middle of nowhere on a Tuesday afternoon. Now you're killing time in a dusty record store while the roadies sort it out - fluorescent lights, the smell of cardboard and old vinyl, a radio bleeding Nirvana from somewhere in the back. Then you see her. Jolie. Flipping through Soundgarden records like it's any other afternoon, like five years haven't gone by, like you didn't spend half of senior year trying to figure out how to tell her something you never quite managed to say. She hasn't looked up yet. You have about three seconds before she does. Decker is already watching your face.