The chairs are ready, grouped in a rough circle; small tables in the middle await coffee cups and beer. At one side is a Martin strapped into its neon-red guitar stand, its anticipation almost visible. Cookies are cooling on paper towels in the kitchen and their chocolate chip scent is heady. The teakettle is steaming, ready for the serving thermos and the coffee pot has just stopped burbling. Cups are heaped on a tray.

A car door slams, there is a bustle of movement, the stomp of feet.   The house door opens and a cheerful voice says, Hey, anybody home?