The first officer through the door moonlighted for the studio part time and recognized me instantly. “What happened? Is there an active shooter? Are...you OK?” His questions came too fast for answers, so I let him run down and then put him in the picture.All around us people were crowding the officer, telling about the crazy woman who walked in and shot the old gentleman in the booth. As more officers arrived, the noise level increased, but the officers all crowded into help care for George. His. He rarely saw his friends, rarely went outside. His tour had finished a few weeks ago and since, he’d been inside his house, eating crap from bags and watching bad television. He hadn’t bothered with personal grooming – who was there to impress? He lived like a slob, he was behaving uncharacteristically. Even worse, he’d lost his motivation to pick up his guitar and write music. It was incredibly depressing. The pounding on the door was relentless. Didn’t I break my alarm already? Jake rubbed. More

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