After a week she noticed something else. Leonard, the opening act, did not only copy material. He copied confidence. Or tried to. The gestures were there but the gravity behind them was missing, like watching someone perform a translation of a language they did not speak. Leah tried to ignore it. Touring teaches patience the way prisons do. But imitation is a peculiar torment. It is not theft exactly. It is a shadow that insists it is the body.

Leah began to feel more curious and less angry. In Antigonish she had an idea. She opened that night with a strange tune. Awkward rhythms, unresolved harmonies, pauses that lasted too long. She behaved as though the piece were extremely serious, nodding solemnly after every uncomfortable phrase. The audience was polite but baffled. Backstage Leonard was radiant.

“That thing you played,” said Leonard, “that was incredible.”

Leah thanked him. Then next night midway through his set he introduced a “new piece.” He played it with deep conviction, like unveiling a masterpiece. Leah listened from the hallway and felt something loosen inside her. Night after night she continued the experiment. One resolved into the wrong key. One looped nowhere. One collapsed halfway through. Each time she performed with the dignity of revelation. By Vancouver Leonard’s act became a museum of peculiar decisions. Audiences watched feeling like they were watching a magician whose tricks didn’t work.

Meanwhile, Leah removed the strange pieces from her set. One night after the show, Leonard approached.

“I don’t get it,” he said. “When you did those bits they seemed brilliant.” Leah wondered whether or not to tell him the truth, instead she said, “Some music only works the first time.” Revenge was less satisfying than she imagined. But the imitation stopped.