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“What about?”
    “I don’t know. Just something new.”
    “What’s your idea?”
    “I don’t have any ideas. I’m just saying, we ought to write a new song.”
    “Hm,” Ariel said, and she frowned. “You mean pull something out of the air?”
    “No.” Nomad understood Ariel’s question, because this wasn’t the way they worked. Most of the original songs The Five played—tunes like ‘The Let Down’, ‘Pain Parade’, ‘I Don’t Need Your Sympathy’, ‘Another Man’, and ‘Pale Echo’—had been written jointly by Nomad and Ariel. Terry had written a few more, both alone and with either of the two lead singers. But the way they worked was that Nomad or Ariel would come up with an idea and start kicking it around with each other, and it might go somewhere or stall and die, you never could tell about songwriting. The others would be asked their opinion, and for ideas on tempo or key, or Terry might come up with an organ motif or solo. Mike was quick to come up with an inventive bass line, and he might go through a few variations before he settled on what he wanted to offer. Berke supplied the core beat, the fills and embellishments, and sometimes she went for what was asked of her and other times she kicked it and went off in an unexpected direction. However it worked—and sometimes it was hard to say exactly how it worked—the result was another song for the set, though from beginning to end of the process might be anywhere from a couple of days to many weeks.
    “Not just something out of the air,” Nomad continued. “I’d like everybody to think about it. Put our heads together.”
    “ Our heads?” That had brought Berke out of her sham sleep. “What do you mean, ‘everybody’?”
    “I mean what I said. I think we all ought to work on a new song, together. Not just Ariel and me, but the whole band. Start with the words, maybe. Everybody does a few lines.”
    Mike’s thick eyebrows jumped. “Say what ?”
    “We all contribute to the lyrics. Is that so hard to follow?”
    “Hell yes, it is,” Mike answered. “I ain’t no poet . Never written a line in my life.”
    “Me neither,” Berke said. “That’s not my job.”
    “Can I speak?” George asked, and in the space that followed he went on. “I think it’s a good idea. I mean, why not at least try ?”
    “Yeah, I’m glad you think so,” Nomad told him, “because you ought to contribute to the song, too.”
    “ Me ? Come on ! I’m the last man in the world who could write a song!”
    “Have you ever tried?”
    “No, and that’s because I can’t . I know sound , but I am completely unmusical, man.”
    “But like you said, why not at least try?”
    Before George could respond, Berke said, “Okay, we get it.” Her voice carried a patronizing note that made Nomad think he ought to have punched her in the face a long time ago, and been done with it. “You’re looking for some way to keep us together , right? Keep our minds straight for the tour? What is this…like…busy work for the soul or something?”
    “Maybe it is.” His throat felt constricted like it did when he had an allergic reaction, which was why he stayed away from all dairy. “Or maybe it’s a productive thing for people to get their heads around.”
    “Good try, bro,” said Mike, “but I know my limits.”
    “Yeah,” Berke agreed, “me too. And it’s not going to make me forget . Look, even if we all sat down in a circle around the campfire and wrote another ‘Kumbaya’, we’re still going to know it’s over. I mean, really. With George and Terry out, we’re not who we were anymore. Yeah, we can find another road manager and audition for a keyboard player, but…” She paused, and in that instant of hesitation Nomad thought he saw pain disturb her features like a ripple across a pond that held its secrets deep. Then it was gone, leaving Nomad with the impression that he was not the only one who’d already begun to mourn a