Dissonance by Shira Anthony

go.”
    “She?”
    Galen laughed, then ran a hand through his hair, appearing a bit uncomfortable. “Yeah. If she sinks, I go down with her.” He opened one of the rear doors and set his trumpet case inside. Cam caught a glimpse of a stack of sheet music on the backseat, although it was too dark to make out much. Galen unlocked the passenger side—no automatic locks here—then pressed his lips together and shook his head. Short white hair—fur, no doubt—covered the black vinyl seat.
    “Sorry about that,” Galen said as he brushed it off. “I usually vacuum the car after Max and I go hiking, but we got back a little late today.”
    “Max?”
    Galen grinned. “My dog.”
    “Oh.” Cam eyed the seat warily, his first thought that his black jeans would pick up the fur like a lint brush. Then he reminded himself that he’d been sleeping in the subway and a bit of fur was hardly the worst of what he might find on his pants. Still, as he settled into the seat, he dusted a few stray hairs off the armrest.
    The drive through the Lincoln Tunnel and on into Jersey was an easy one, too late for there to be much traffic. Cam looked out the window, unwilling to engage Galen in conversation. Galen didn’t seem to mind. He whistled—a tune Cam recognized but couldn’t remember the name of—then tuned the radio to a jazz station that played bebop.
    Thirty minutes later Galen exited the freeway, and they drove another ten minutes before turning down a small street lined with cookie-cutter houses. Postwar, Cam guessed, each with the same boxy structure, some with dormers, others with vinyl siding. Galen pulled into a driveway between two of the houses, but to Cam’s surprise, the driveway didn’t end at either house. It continued on, snaking behind them a few hundred feet to an old farmhouse. Probably the original house on the land that was now cluttered with homes. Built in the 1800s, he guessed.
    A single light lit the walkway from the driveway to the front porch. White, with blue shutters, the house was nearly three times as large as its neighbors. A dog barked, although in the semidarkness, Cam couldn’t see it. Max, no doubt.
    Cam followed Galen up the stairs and through the front door. Galen flipped on the light to reveal high ceilings and wide-planked wooden floors. To the right, in what Cam guessed was supposed to be the dining room, stood two trestles supporting a large piece of wood—a makeshift table stacked high with more than a dozen fiberglass cases and several instruments. On one side, Cam saw a battered french horn and what looked like a tuba; on the other side, a clarinet with some of its keys missing. Between the cases and the instruments were a bevy of tools, neatly arranged by size and shape, most of which Cam didn’t recognize. Maybe Galen repaired instruments on the side. Playing in the subway couldn’t pay that well.
    Galen untied his trainers and set them by the front mat. Perfectly straight, Cam noted, just like the tools on the table. When in Rome. Cam slipped his shoes off as well and placed them beside Galen’s on the mat.
    Galen, who had already made his way past Cam and set his trumpet case down by a steep set of stairs, walked to the back of the house. Cam heard what he guessed was the back door opening; then Galen shouted, “Max!” Seconds later came the sound of claws against wood floors and a blur of white and gray bounded into the hallway. Cam barely saw the dog before it jumped up, its head nearly reaching Cam’s shoulders.
    Cam gasped and backed up until he hit the wall, heart pounding. Too much caffeine, too little sleep, and the thought that people were out there looking for him, and he was a sniveling mess.
    “Max! Down! Sit!”
    To Cam’s surprise, the dog did as he was told and looked almost apologetically at Galen. Galen, on the other hand, seemed unconcerned with Cam’s over-the-top reaction. “We don’t get much company,” he explained almost casually as he opened a