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but I couldn’t come up with anyone.
    Forcing those thoughts away, I found my mind lingering over a song that I’d been noodling with for the last couple of months. The rhythm—so far—had promise, but I’d been struggling with the lyrics. As memories of Morgan intruded, however, I began to try new phrases and verses, and as I adjusted the opening measures, I felt something click, like the first tumbler falling in a combination lock.
    I don’t know how it works for anyone else, but songwriting is a mysterious process. Sometimes a song comes so quickly, I’m a bit shocked; other times—like with this one—the final product eludes me for weeks or months. Sometimes it never feels right at all, but I’ll find myself using bits and pieces in an entirely new song. With any song, however, there’s always a germ of inspiration, that very first idea. It can be a phrase or a snatch of melody I can’t shake, and once I have that, I begin to build. It’s sort of like I’m making my way through a dark, cluttered attic, where my goal is to find the light switch on the far side of the room. As I try new things, sometimes I bump into unseen obstacles and have to retrace my steps, or—if I’m lucky—I’ll take a step forward that just feels right. I can’t tell you why it feels right—it’s instinctual, I guess. After that, I try to find the next right thing, and then the next, until I finally reach that light switch, and the song is finished. I know I’m not explaining it that well, but since I don’t really understand it, I’m not sure it’s possible to put into words. The only thing I know with any certainty is that when I’m creating, I generally lose all track of time.
    Which is exactly what happened. I had fallen into one of those creative zones when I realized the song was getting closer. Thelyrics were about meeting someone who surprises you, and though I didn’t consider it polished by any means, it was definitely a workable first draft.
    By then it was half past ten, and I wasn’t tired in the slightest. Remembering Morgan’s invitation, I dressed in one of the two decent button-up shirts I’d brought to Florida, ditched the flip-flops for a pair of Vans, and—force of habit—grabbed my guitar, as well.
    The drive to St. Petersburg took about twenty minutes, and with the help of my phone, locating MacDinton’s was easy. Parking was a bit more of a challenge, but I got lucky after circling the block twice and ended up finding a spot a short stroll away. Even from a distance, it was easy to tell that MacDinton’s was a popular watering hole. Outside, knots of people stood around smoking, and I could hear the music blasting long before I reached the doors.
    Inside, people were jammed shoulder to shoulder, holding pints of Guinness, shots of Irish whiskey, and long-stemmed cocktail glasses. It was pretty much standing room only, and it was all I could do not to get spilled on by whomever I was squeezing past. Despite the close quarters, people had to shout to hear one another over the music.
    I eventually spotted Morgan and her friends at a table near the back. They were surrounded by several guys, whom I guessed to be in their late twenties or early thirties. They were young professional types, wearing designer-label shirts and jeans and clunky watches. As I approached, I could see them calculating which girl was going home with which guy. I suspected they wouldn’t be thrilled by my appearance. Right on cue, when I was a few feet away, two of them spotted my approach and began to puff up like the roosters strutting around on my farm.
    One of Morgan’s friends must have noticed, because shesquinted up at them, then tracked their stares to me. Eyes widening, she leaned toward Morgan. Morgan listened intently before suddenly turning to me with a wide smile.
    She immediately jumped up and elbowed her way past a pair of guys, hustling toward me. That was enough to silence the entire group for an instant,