It had been less than a week since my finals ended and three days since I got back to Minnesota, and I was already feeling claustrophobic.

  I hadn’t been back home to visit since Christmas, but already the suburban split-level my parents owned felt too small for me. I missed the constant buzz of the Gold Coast or the energy of the UChicago campus, and the quiet of this small Minneapolis suburb was unnerving me. It was odd; I was back in my familiar room with the sounds of Janie running around upstairs and my Dad and brother busy tinkering in the garage, but I felt like their house had moved on from me. My expensive luggage sitting in the corner with most of my clothes not unpacked was a constant reminder that this was only temporary.

  I was only staying for a little over a week before I flew out of state to begin my summer-long project. I knew I needed time to decompress because my schedule was about to explode. Mom commented that my silk blouses and designer skirts were making it difficult for her to run interference about my wealth, but I didn’t want to dress down just to blend in. I was tired of disguises, and to be honest I was far too comfortable with my new wardrobe.

  The good news was I wasn’t the only exile returning home on our street.

  Erin was back from her freshman year at the University of Michigan, and the day I saw her parent’s car pull into her driveway I walked down the street to her house. She answered the door straight away and we collectively squealed. She was wearing a faded navy t-shirt with "MICHIGAN" in yellow block letters that had the sleeves cut off.

  "There she is," Erin grinned. "Hey there, Chicago."

  "Hey, Michigan," I said, letting her pull me into a hug. “How was the flight?”

  "Rough," she said. "Oh my god, you look so good, Maya! I was going to run over to your house before I started unpacking, but you saved me the trouble! Let’s go downstairs."

  We went down to her bedroom, which was a time capsule of our senior year. The same posters were on the wall, the same comforter on the bed. We sat on the carpet, leaning back against the bed frame, legs stretched out. It was nice to be somewhere that hadn't changed, with the one person who knew me before I became whatever I was becoming.

  "So?" I nudged my knee against Erin’s. "Give me the report. Was the University of Michigan everything you dreamed of?"

  "It’s amazing," she beamed. "Football games at the Big House are insane, Maya. A million people screaming. It’s chaotic and loud and exactly what I wanted college to be." She looked at me. "What about Chicago? Is it as stuffy at that school of yours that I think it is?"

  I laughed. "A little bit. It's intense. The classes are heavy, the people are serious. I spent a lot of time in the library, but I really like it. I love the challenge and unlike high school I’m never bored in class.”

  "Well, you always were serious," she smiled. "Did you at least make time for some fun? Meet any cute, brooding intellectuals?"

  I picked at a loose thread on her rug. "There was a guy. Sean. An Econ major."

  "Ooh, a name! Tell me everything. Is he your boyfriend?"

  “Nothing like that. We just…had fun together.”

  “You weren’t dating?”

  I shook my head. “I told him I wasn’t looking for anything romantic. I just...needed a release, and no commitment. I didn’t have time for a boyfriend, and I didn’t want to do the whole dating thing. I probably sound horrible.”

  "Okay," she said slowly. "So, friends with benefits?"

  "Basically. But he wanted more, and I didn't, so it ended before I came home." I looked up at her, feeling a sudden, sharp insecurity that I hadn't expected. It was the old fear, one that crept up from somewhere in the back of my head where Matthew still lived. "Do you think that's weird? That I just wanted the sex? It feels like I'm missing some crucial girl quality that makes me want the romance and the flowers."

  Erin tilted her head. “You’ve always known what you want. You’re the most confident person I’ve ever met.”

  I looked away. “Maybe. But I feel like I’m too much like a guy sometimes. I dunno.”

  Erin regarded me skeptically. “You honestly think you’re not feminine enough? Maya, you’re the only girl I know who insists on wearing skirts even in the middle of winter. You were a cheerleader, for god’s sake! There’s nothing macho about culottes and pom poms!”

  “Those are just clothes.”

  Erin bumped her shoulder against mine. “Listen. Being assertive or wanting sex on your own terms doesn’t make you masculine or wrong. Besides,” she grinned mischievously, “I can confirm that you definitely don’t kiss like a boy.”

  I blushed. “I suppose it’s been a while since that happened…”

  Erin wagged her finger at me. “Hold on, you. I have a boyfriend, you know. I can’t be cheating on him this summer while I’m away.”

  I smirked suggestively. “I thought it wasn’t cheating if it was with a girl?”

  Erin laughed. “I think we just liked getting off so much last summer we pretended that wasn’t true. I mean, if Jake had found out –” Erin stopped short. “Oh Maya, I’m sorry I mentioned him.”

  I paused for a moment. “It’s fine. Honestly, so much has been going on I haven’t thought about him in a while.” I waved it off. “Anyway, tell me about this guy who you refuse to cheat on!”

  For the rest of the day with Erin I forgot about the monotony of living at home or the upcoming gauntlet I was about to run. We were just two best friends hanging out with each other and reconnecting. It wasn’t until later that night that I walked back up the street to return home. The house was quiet, since Tim and Janie were off at their friends’ houses and Mom and Dad were retired for the evening.

  I tiptoed into my room, and several anxious thoughts fired at once. I had set them aside for the day, but alone in my room they popped right back into my head. I reached into my suitcase, opening up the hidden lining behind my clothes.

  Inside was the familiar, if slightly worn, notebook with a pink cartoon butterfly staring back at me.

  The Butterfly Manifesto.

  I had filled in this innocuous notebook in this very room years ago when Matthew’s memories of the future were fresher in my head. I filled it with every single bit of information about the future I could recall, and kept it hidden when it wasn’t on my person. It contained every plan, every event of note and I still shuddered when I thought about the power this notebook represented.

  Tonight, it was a reminder of everything I had been working towards. I flipped past crossed out pages of dot-com trades and a section about my grandfather’s 2006 heart attack, and found the section I was looking for. The spine cracked as I smoothed open the pages.

  November 7, 2000. This was the date. The heading was underlined in black ink and jagged with an anger that belonged to Matthew and was inherited by me.

  Matthew had always been politically conscious. Always interested in history and the way the government worked, even canvassing and volunteering for campaigns. The year 2000 had been the first presidential election year he voted in, and he watched in helpless rage as Al Gore slowly lost the Electoral College to George Bush. But then, a fractional discrepancy in the state of Florida caused ballots to be recounted. For weeks afterwards Matthew followed the recount as it turned into a media circus, ending with the Supreme Court finally handing the keys to the White House to Bush.

  Matthew spent the next twenty or so years living in the wreckage of that decision. In his opinion, the rot that infected his timeline permeated from that day. The Afghan Invasion. The botched Hurricane Katrina response. The War on Terror. The 2008 financial collapse leading to the rise of Donald Trump and his systematic corruption.

  COVID running rampant and destroying Matthew’s father.

  Our father.

  And it all started with a mere few hundred votes in Florida. Matthew studied the election for years, writing essays when he was in school and concluding that this was the moment that started the decline of American society. That poisoned the 21st Century just as it had begun in his timeline.

  537 votes, to be exact. A margin the size of an apartment complex.

  Even now, nine years after appearing in the past and growing into a different person, I still shared his anger. I knew the stakes, and when I began writing the Butterfly Manifesto, it all came back to this tiny rounding error. Every move I had made in this timeline was to correct this error; to get enough money and resources to reach this point in time and prevent it from happening. It was the primary reason for gathering a mountain of cash, for every tech short or investment decision I made. To change this one election and replot the course of history. To at least give the world a chance at a better fate.

  I had all of Matthew’s data, and years to think about my tactics. The stock market had been practice. My money was a tool. This was a correction.

  ***

  The conference room of Sterling, Weiss & Associates was frigid. Outside of the windows of this fortieth floor room, the beaches of Miami glowed gold in contrast to the air inside.

  My investigator, Nick O'Toole, set a two-inch binder on the table before the suits across from us, and he didn’t bother with the platitudes and pleasantries. I liked O’Toole’s lack of pleasantries.

  “We’ve been running scripts since April,” he began, flipping the binder to a page covered in red graphs. “We cross-referenced the state’s voter roll database against the so-called Felon Scrub List conducted by the Florida Division of Elections. Their criteria utilized a ‘loose match’ system of eliminating registrations. If a ‘John Smith’ committed a felony in, say, Georgia, the system flags every ‘John Smith’ in Florida.”

  The senior partner, a silver-haired man named Harrison Sterling, peered over his reading glasses at the binder. He regarded it with a sense of skepticism and disinterested calculation.

  To my left, my lawyer Peter Vance chimed in. “Our analysts have identified eight thousand wrongfully flagged voters in Miami-Dade and Broward counties alone. Ninety percent are African-American. Ninety percent are Democrats.”

  “This is interesting data, Ms. Peterson,” Sterling mused as he leaned back. “We can certainly file a formal complaint with the Justice Department, but an investigation could take months. I’m sure the state will do nothing until after the election, and even then half-heartedly.”

  “I don’t want an investigation,” I corrected. “I want an Emergency Federal Injunction.”

  Sterling blinked. “Excuse me?”

  I leaned forward. “I want you to sue the Secretary of State. I want a federal judge to freeze that list before a single name is purged. I want the burden of proof shifted back to the state of Florida.”

  “Ms. Peterson, I think–”

  “Also,” I added, “I want a lawyer or paralegal physically present in every precinct in Miami-Dade, Broward, and Duval,” I ordered. “If a voter is flagged on this list, they step in. Cite the injunction. Get a provisional ballot. No one is turned away. And I want the ballot ad campaign to air in Palm Beach by September 15th.”

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  Sterling looked aside at his associate, clearly not expecting such pointed requests from a girl young enough to be his daughter. “Ms. Peterson, you are asking us to wage a multi-front war against the state. We would need to mobilize a legal standing army. The billable hours alone would be astronomical.”

  I simply gestured to Vance, who smiled and opened his briefcase. He slid a check across the polished wood.

  Sterling’s associate reached for it and handed it to him. I saw him blink as he looked at the number.

  Two million dollars.

  He set down the check as if it were made of glass. The skepticism melted from his face and he cleared his throat.

  “We will file the injunction tomorrow morning. Staffing will begin immediately. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Please keep Mr. Vance updated on your status weekly. I’ll be meeting with the NAACP chapter in the following weeks with further coordination.”

  ***

  If the law office in Miami was a freezer, the NAACP branch office in Jacksonville was a furnace. Dozens of volunteers scrambled about the crowded office making the humid air even harsher in the cramped room. The sounds of ringing telephones and a tired air conditioner filled the room.

  “We appreciate the donation for the buses, Ms. Peterson,” said Reverend Kingsley, a middle-aged man who had moments ago cleared papers for a place for us to sit down. He looked tired, and wiped sweat from his brow. “With that funding, we'll be able to run shuttles from the church parking lots every half hour.”

  “I’m happy to help with transportation, Reverend,” I replied, raising my voice about the sounds of phone bankers. “But getting voters to the polling station is only half the problem. I want to make sure they can actually vote when they arrive.”

  From behind me, Vance handed me a large, color-coded map of the county, which I unfolded across the messy table before us.

  “This is a map my analysts created of voting machine allocation,” I said, pointing to the blue zones. “In Ponte Vedra, there is an optical scanner for every two hundred voters. They’re in and out in fifteen minutes.”

  I slid my finger to the red zone, labeled North Jacksonville.

  “In your districts,” I continued, “there is one punch-card machine for every eight hundred voters. The average wait time is four hours, according to this year’s primaries. It will be worse in November. We can bus them in, but if they have to wait this long, they’re going to leave and go back to work.”

  Kingsley looked at the map, seeing the disparity visually for the first time. “We’ve complained to the Supervisor of Elections for years. Budget issue, they say.”

  “It’s not a budget issue,” Vance said, leaning against a filing cabinet. “It’s a violation of the Voting Rights Act.”

  I pulled a binder from the bag at my feet. “I’ve already retained a firm to file an emergency writ of mandamus. We’re going to force the county to reallocate the machines from the blue zones to the red zones before November. I just need you to sign as the plaintiff.”

  Kingsley took the legal brief from me. “I will need to look this over.”

  “Please do so, Reverend,” I said as he stood and took the brief to one of his staff members across the room. As they reviewed the binder together, O’Toole entered through the front door with a manila envelope in hand. He spotted me right away and maneuvered through the maze of desks.

  “Ms. Peterson,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Sorry to bother you, but I have an update on that Boeing position you wanted me to research.”

  I froze. That was the code for one of my highest priority assignments. “Go on,” I said.

  “You asked us to flag any Saudi or Middle Eastern nationals taking flight lessons, as part of the due diligence on foreign investment,” O’Toole said, sliding the envelope onto the table. “We found a cluster of students right here in Florida fitting the profile. Paying cash. Asking to train on jets despite having no experience.”

  I took the folder in my hand, slowly pulling out the contents. The photo was grainy, as if taken with a telephoto lens from across the road. It showed two Arabic men standing next to some sort of airplane. They wore polo shirts and were smiling at each other as if laughing at a joke. My stomach churned, and I resisted the urge to scream.

  O’Toole noticed my expression. “Ms. Peterson? Is this relevant to your Boeing deal?”

  I grimaced, but collected myself as I shoved the photo back into the folder.

  “It is. Monitor them, but don’t spook them. I want to know everywhere they go, everyone they meet, and every dollar they spend. I need a massive paper trail before we make a move on…this investment.”

  “Understood,” replied O’Toole.

  “Ms. Peterson?” Kingsley asked, returning with a pen. “Where do I sign?”

  I forced a smile, locking my horror away in a box in the back of my mind.

  “Right at the bottom, Reverend,” I said. “Let’s get those machines moved.”

  ***

  “Three universities in five days, Ms. Peterson. Do you have any idea what the power draw is for a rig this size?”

  Scully, the VP of Operations for Fantasma Productions, rubbed his temples as he looked over the logistics map spread out on the table. The noise of the upscale bistro faded into the background as he pointed a fork at the University of Florida campus map.

  “Student Unions are a nightmare to work with,” he continued, chewing on a piece of calamari. “They promise you the football field, then tell you the sprinklers are on a timer you can’t shut off. You’re talking about Gainesville, Tallahassee, and Orlando. That’s three different fire marshals, three different police chiefs, and three different sets of load-in restrictions.”

  “And Fantasma is the best logistical operator in the state,” I said, buttering a roll calmly. “Which is why I’m paying you a premium flat fee, Scully. You aren't promoting a show to make a profit on the door. You’re being paid to ensure the stage stands up and the lights turn on.”

  I took a sip of water. “Besides, the venues are free. The student associations have already signed off. They’re classifying it as a ‘Civic Engagement Rally.’ No rental fees. They’re just stoked to have our friend here perform. Right, Stephan?”

  Stephan Jenkins, the front-man for Third Eye Blind, leaned forward in the booth. He was wearing a vintage t-shirt and looked far too relaxed for a business meeting, but his band had one of the biggest albums in the country right now.

  “That’s the part I love,” Jenkins said, grinning. “It’s ground level. No Ticketmaster surcharges, no corporate suites. Just the kids on the grass. It feels real. Like we’re actually waking them up.”

  “It’s effective,” I said to Scully, keeping my true calculations to myself. “We bring the show to them. No driving, no parking fees. They walk out of their dorms and onto the field.”

  Scully sighed, conceding the point. The money I was paying Fantasma was guaranteed, regardless of attendance. It was the safest gig they’d booked all year.

  “Alright,” Scully said. “But the gate is going to be a choke point. If it’s free, you’re going to have ten thousand kids trying to push through a funnel. How do we control who gets a wristband?”

  “The price of admission isn't cash,” I reminded him. “It’s a voter registration card. Valid Florida registration, or they don't get in.”

  “I get that,” Scully said. “But have you ever tried to check IDs for ten thousand drunk sophomores? It takes time. If the line stalls, they’ll tear the fences down.”

  “We won’t let the line stall,” I said. “We’re setting up a pre-check perimeter. I’m handling the staffing for the front of house personally.”

  “You have a security team?”

  “I have… registrars,” I corrected. “A specialized team. They’ll be set up on campus to register voters for a week before the gates even open. They’ll check cards, help people fill out the forms on clipboards, and issue the wristbands on site.”

  Scully raised an eyebrow. “You think you can find a team competent enough to handle that chaos?”

  “My people have been setting down the framework for months. Plus, I’m holding the casting call for our registrars this coming week,” I said, quietly. “I’m looking for a very specific skill set. Persuasion is key.”

  I turned to Jenkins. “Fantasma is worried about the crowd. I’m worried about the draw. Are we sure about the co-headliner?”

  Jenkins finished his drink and set the glass down with a definitive clink.

  “I talked to him last week,” Jenkins said, his eyes lighting up with genuine excitement. “Grohl is locked in. The Foo Fighters are doing all three dates. He’s stoked. He said he’d play a parking lot if it got people to the polls.”

  Scully let out a low whistle. “Third Eye Blind and Foo Fighters for free? You’re going to need a bigger field.”

  “Then make sure the sound system can handle it,” I said.

  ***

  The ballroom of the Hyatt Regency Orlando looked less like a political organizing meeting and more like a casting call for a beer commercial.

  From the back of the room, standing in the shadows near the service entrance, I watched the process unfold. My team, assisted by Fantasma’s production staff, had been efficient. They had combed through the political science departments and debate clubs of Central Florida, inviting only the most charismatic, high-energy applicants.

  But there was a filter.

  “Name?” the Casting Director asked a young woman with blonde hair and a dazzling smile.

  “Sarah,” she replied. “Junior at Rollins. Pre-Law.”

  “Great,” the Director said, checking a box on his clipboard. “And just for our internal demographic matching… who did you back in the primary? McCain or Bush?”

  “Oh, I was a Bradley supporter,” Sarah said. “But I’m fully on board with Gore now.”

  “That’s nice,” the Director said, handing her an employment packet. “Welcome to the team.”

  If she had said Bush, she would have been thanked and politely sent to the hallway. It was subtle, it was likely a violation of labor laws, and it was absolutely necessary.

  “The sorting process is simple,” the Director announced to the group of thirty selected women. “We need to track the data for our sponsors. If the registrant marks Democrat or Independent, the form goes in the blue box. If they mark Republican, it goes in the red box. Do not mix them up.”

  He paused, looking at them.

  “But remember,” he added. “Everyone gets a wristband. Doesn't matter which box the paper goes in. Your goal is to keep the line moving and get them into the show.”

  I leaned toward Vance, keeping my voice barely above a whisper.

  “Make sure the blue boxes are overnighted to the Supervisor of Elections via FedEx at the end of every shift,” I murmured. “Tracked and insured.”

  “And the red boxes?” Vance asked, his face impassive.

  “Put them on the equipment trucks with the stage gear,” I said. “Standard ground shipping. If they fall behind a speaker cabinet or get lost during load-out, well, mistakes happen.”

  Vance nodded once. I appreciated that he asked for no further clarifications.

  Just then, the wardrobe assistants rolled out the clothing racks. The chatter in the room died down as the plastic covers were pulled off.

  There were no flags. No patriotic slogans. Just rows of bright bikini tops and cut-off denim shorts.

  Elena, the Senior Production Manager from Fantasma, crossed her arms. She was a sharp woman in her thirties who had managed tours for acts much bigger than this, and she didn't look happy.

  “Subtle,” Elena commented, keeping her voice low. “We’re hiring honors students, and we’re dressing them like they’re working a wet t-shirt contest in Daytona? Honestly, Ms. Peterson? It feels sexist.”

  I didn't look at her. I watched Sarah choose a bikini top, and excitedly sizing it up against her chest.

  “’I’m paying them twenty dollars an hour to prevent potential voters from walking past the registration table,” I said. “Besides, their boss happens to be a girl their own age. I’d argue that makes it less sexist.”

  “It feels reductive,” Elena countered, her tone respectful but biting. “You’re exploiting them.”

  I paused. I looked at the girls, then at the uniforms. Frankly, she had a point.

  “Well, if that’s the case, I ought to walk the walk, shouldn’t I?”

  ***

  I adjusted my aviator sunglasses perched on my nose and leaned over the folding table, feeling a bead of sweat track down my stomach beneath the teal bikini top. My cut-off denim shorts were already sticky from the heat. Gainesville, Florida in September was not for the faint of heart.

  The humidity on Flavet Field was a physical weight, thick enough to chew on, but I didn't mind. To the casual observer, and even to my own team, I was just another college girl working a summer job. The only difference between me and the other girls was the two bulky security guards stationed specifically behind my station.

  I had been roaming Florida for the past three months, and this was the most sun I’d gotten. Moving from boardroom to boardroom for meeting after meeting, today was the first time I was letting loose. The energy I was feeling couldn’t exist in the corporate world; it was raw female sexuality and something I didn’t get to indulge in as much as I wanted to.

  Sweating in the Florida sun, flirting with boys who thought they were players? I was just responding to what came naturally when I set my mask aside. And in all fairness, I filled out this bikini top exceptionally well.

  “Do I need to register to get your number, or just the wristband?”

  The guy in the Sigma Nu tank top leaned on the table, grinning at his friends. He was the fourth one to use that line in ten minutes.

  “You register to get into the party,” I said, flashing a smile that I knew was devastating. I tapped the clipboard. “And if you fill it out neatly, maybe I’ll think about the number.”

  He grabbed the pen. I watched him check the box marked “Affiliation: Republican.”

  “There you go,” he said, sliding the form back to me with a wink. “Gotta piss off the tree-huggers.”

  “You’re bad,” I teased, tearing off a neon green wristband.

  “Well, I’m probably not even gonna vote anyway. I’m just here for the party.”

  “You’re so bad,” I giggled.

  I handed it to him. As he turned to high-five his buddies, I slid his form off the table and dropped it directly into the red box sitting in the shadow beneath the table.

  “Next!” I called out, turning to a girl with blue hair. She filled out the box marked Democrat. Her form went into the blue box on the table. It might have been my imagination, but I think she made a timid pass at me as well. I smiled just as brightly as ever.

  Elena walked by, carrying a case of water bottles. She paused, looking at me, then she laughed and shook her head.

  “You know,” Elena said, setting a water down for me. “You look terrifyingly natural in that outfit. If I didn't know you ran this whole outfit, I’d think you were just another college-aged cutie.”

  “I am a cutie, Elena,” I said, taking a sip of water. “And maybe I don’t mind everyone forgetting I run everything. At least every once in a while."

  “Well, keep it up,” she said, gesturing to the swelling crowd. “We’re at capacity in the first hour. It’s a madhouse.”

  She walked off, and I turned to greet the next batch of frat guys and their pickup lines.

  Two hours later, I was in my production trailer, scrubbing the humidity off my skin. I traded the bikini top for a black silk camisole and leather pants. It was high-end attire, but still comfortable enough for the weather. I checked the mirror. The "Boss" was back, but the buzz from the field was still humming in my veins.

  I headed to the Green Room tent, security letting me in without question. Stephan Jenkins and the rest of Third Eye Blind were there, but my eyes went straight to the couch.

  Dave Grohl was sitting there, chewing gum, tuning an acoustic guitar.

  I froze.

  Matthew had liked Nirvana, but me? I had worshipped them. Nevermind was the first album I bought with my own money in this timeline. I stared at him, watching his hands move over the fretboard. It was still wild to me that I was here in the room with him. A room I paid for.

  I felt my knees get weak. I had to physically force myself to breathe.

  “Maya!” Jenkins called out. “Dave, this is the woman paying the bills.”

  Grohl looked up. He had that famous, goofy grin.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, extending a hand. “Stephan told me you’re the one giving away the free show. That’s a hell of a business model.”

  I shook his hand, trying desperately not to let mine tremble.

  “Well,” I managed, my voice sounding a little higher than usual. “I figured this was the most expensive way possible to meet you, but it’s still worth it.”

  Grohl laughed, a loud, barking sound. “I would have settled for a beer, but I’ll take the stadium gig. You in the business, or just a benefactor?”

  “I play a little,” I said. “Just a cover band. We’re an all-girl band and we play campus parties to get into the good keggers. Strictly for fun.”

  Grohl’s eyebrows went up. He held the guitar out to me by the neck.

  “Show me,” he said.

  The attention of the crowd gathering around us perked as I took the guitar. It felt heavy, real.

  I didn't try to impress him with grunge or punk. I dug deep for something quick and percussive that a drummer might appreciate. I struck the body of the guitar with my palm in a steady rhythm and went into that classic stomping riff of “Black Betty” by Ram Jam. I got to show off the aggressive fingerstyle that I’d been fostering over two lifetimes.

  I finished and looked up.

  Grohl nodded, genuinely impressed. “Okay. You got good hands. A little clean, maybe. But you nailed the timing. Like a machine”

  He grabbed a second guitar off the stand. “Here. See if you can follow me.”

  He started playing. It wasn't technical. It was raw. We jammed for maybe twenty minutes—or maybe it was twenty seconds. I couldn't tell. I was just trying to keep up, terrified and exhilarated.

  “Alright,” Grohl said, slapping his knees and standing up. “I gotta go do a line check before we open the gates fully. See you after the show, Boss.”

  He walked out of the tent, casual as anything.

  The second the flap closed behind him, I sank onto the couch, letting out a breath I’d been holding since I walked in. I fanned my face with my hand.

  “Oh my god,” I squeaked. “I played with Dave Grohl.”

  Thirty minutes later, the sun was down.

  I stood on the VIP riser, a Coke in my hand because I couldn't legally hold anything else.

  Flavet Field was packed. Six thousand students were crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, a sea of bodies stretching back to the treeline.

  The lights cut out. The roar was deafening.

  Grohl ran out onto the stage, screaming, and the band launched into the opening chords of “Breakout.” The crowd surged forward as one massive organism.

  I watched them jump. I saw the thousands of neon green wristbands waving in the air.

  Six thousand kids. Probably four thousand registrations.

  I smiled, taking a sip of my drink. The music washed over me, loud and perfect.

  One city down. Two to go.