Andres pulled himself together. He produced the pick Lennard gave him for good luck but dropped it, a sound guy stepped on it while walking past for good measure.

Whatever.

He pushed his hair out of his face and heaved a breath in, then out; remembered something Mom had told him once, it was outside the hospital room when Dad was being told his options.

“Baby,” she said. She hadn’t been sleeping, she had a will like a river. “Focus on one thing. Pick one thing to fix on,” she was running a gentle hand down Andres’s back. The boy mumbled something only his mom could hear.

“It can be a color, pick a color.”

Back in the Regent, Andres scanned the backstage. A calphic sign over the green room glowed, people shuffled in and out going about their business.

“Emerald,” Andres said.

Emerald.

Emerald.

Andres picked up the pick and pocketed it, and walked on stage.