“Guy struck a jangling chord on the keyboards and then another. 'You know,' he announced, sitting back and crossing his arms. 'We need some new material. We’ve got to write some new songs.''Like what?'He shrugged. 'I don’t know. Throw out some ideas.''Love! Death! Existential struggle!' Emily intoned dramatically, rattling out a drumroll. 'Agriculture!”

“If you've got some hopelessly overmatched heroes fighting evil and some Imperial types marching, John Williams is your guy. You need a song to make people reach for a box of Kleenex, talk to Randy Newman. But if you want creepy atmospherics and spine-shivering chords to back up your casual death threats, you gotta bring in Danny Elfman.”

“You know, you can always do a three some.”“A three some?” I frowned. “No.”He shrugged. “Just a thought.”“Yeah, a dumb one,” I spat.“Hey! I didn’t call your idea to re-wallpaper the kitchen a dumb idea!”“You have a problem with the new paper?” I demanded.“Pop, please, it’s hideous,” Trick said.”

“He lives near me so we do some things together.” His throat felt tight. “Well, lots of things, actually. But of course we have our own lives. Both know it’s important we don’t get in each other’s way. It’s not like he needs me, needs my help for anything.”“But you do.”Garry turned his head so swiftly, he heard it crick.“You need him,” Emily announced, gravely. “Don’t you?” And while he desperately searched for something to say that would stop this right now, she peered carefully at his shoulders and neck.“You need him to do your hair, to comb out those very nasty dangles. It’s difficult, I know. I can’t do my plates on my own.”Max caught Garry’s eye. “Tangles,” he mouthed. “Plaits.”

“Give me a bouncy ball. I’ve got some ideas I want to throw at you. Put on your squeaky shoes—we’ve got work to do!”

“Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country.”