The bell on Main Street Vinyl’s front door jingled as the Metalhead pushed inside. It was blissfully dark in here, and the shop had some old-school Ray Charles playing just loud enough to muffle the sound of his sneakers on the old carpet as he shuffled toward the back of the store. He should feel good. He knew that, in his head. Intellectually. He should be climbing out of the dark hole he’d put himself into. He had a roof over his head. Soon he’d have money coming in. He’d be able to help his uncle out.

Eddie was on his way.

But that storm cloud still hung heavy over Eddie's head, so dense that even the familiarity of the record shop couldn’t disperse it. And he thought he knew why. He might be on his way, but toward what, he had no idea. He wasn’t catching the express train to San Quentin like Dad. He wasn’t going to be some golden rock god out in California. So where did that leave Eddie Munson? Small-town, second-string drug dealer forever? That didn’t feel right either.

Let yourself be you. That’s what Uncle Wayne had said. But how was he supposed to know what that was?

His train of thoughts however as a friendly voice talked to him, which was definitely not the grim voice of Jeff he's used to in here...