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Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.

Four days later, we flew United to Chicago O’Hare where a driver was supposed to meet us. I’d traded in my denim jacket for my somewhat battered black trench coat, and put on the round sunglasses Matthew had given me way back when. The contracts were in my backpack again and I felt weird traveling with no guitar. I set the pack down on the moving walkway as we drifted under waves of neon sculpture toward baggage claim. I was tired. Five days at home hadn’t been restful. I’d spent most of it on the phone or going back and forth from one office to another, lawyers, Charles River, a booking agent who might set up our own tour… I hadn’t seen the others at all, except for Christian because we lived in the same house.

As we neared the end of the walkway, I turned to the others and looked over the top of the sunglasses. “You know what I want to do?” They waited for the answer. “Rehearse.”

“Aww, Dad,” Christian said, but I could see in his face he agreed with me.

“It’s been almost a week and I don’t want to sound like crap.”

“When?” Bart pushed at my shoulder and I realized I had to step off the walkway.

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