The latches of his guitar case were brass, but they hadn’t closed properly in years. The case was cracked red leather – an elaborate network of twine kept it shut for travel, and generally he had plenty of time before  a show to tease loose the knots.

Running through the midnight streets, breathing hard, with seven ghost-faced dogs on his heels, Max wished he had scraped up the coin to get the latches fixed.

He tumbled over a cart full of purple pears, and watched as the guitar case went skidding across the cobblestone street. He ignored the cries of the cart’s owner, and the blood coming from his scratched hands, and crawled after the case desperately. He laid one hand on it, as the first dog skidded to a stop.

Someone had spent a pretty purse on their construction, brass tubes vented steam, and through its transparent skin Max…