Outside Gary’s house the cacophony, a mixture of microphone feedback and dentist’s drill, grew louder. He furiously rummaged through the drawers in his bathroom. Hands trembling he held up the earplugs he had been looking for and stuffed them in his ears. Three years ago when he went through this ordeal with his daughter he had suffered a ruptured eardrum and Hot Crossed Buns haunted his dreams for months. He needed to protect himself.

Two houses down there was an explosion of noise as if a Tomahawk missile had just decimated the Miller's bungalow. My god, his son was getting closer. Gary mashed the earplugs in further. How long would his son have to practice? How long would Gary have to endure? Two weeks? Three? And then at the end of the death march lay the school concert. A whole gym full. How would he survive?

In his front yard, it sounded as if a portal to hell had suddenly erupted from the earth and a demon army screaming in agony had emerged and was now clomping up the steps of his porch. Gary drained his can of Diet Pepsi on the coffee table wishing it was beer or whiskey, Christ, even moonshine—anything that could ward off the inevitable pain. The handle of the door knob jiggled and Gary thought of slamming the deadbolt, shutting off the lights, pretending he wasn’t home. But it was too late, the door flew open and his son barreled in and tossed his backpack to the floor. While clamping both hands over his ears, Gary tried to force an encouraging smile as his son brandished his new recorder, brought it to his lips, and blew.