Morris disliked the suggestion he had discovered a secret. He hadn’t. He hated waiting rooms, pharmaceutical hold music, government forms, musicians who didn’t bring cables, and anyone who used the phrase “everything happens for a reason.” He complained constantly. He did not believe everything happened for a reason. Some things happened because the transmission was toast. Still, every morning he made coffee. That mattered. He liked the smell when the water hit the grounds. He liked oatmeal. He liked an E major chord on his guitar and adding the F-sharp because suddenly it became a question. He remained curious.

Illness reduced his world. Couldn’t tour as much. Then couldn’t tour at all. Money became tighter. Friends occasionally slipped twenty-dollar bills into his coat pocket, believing he wouldn’t notice. He noticed. But the world kept supplying details. A squirrel once spent ten minutes trying to carry an entire hamburger bun up a maple tree. Magnificent. A neighbour’s six-year-old learned three notes on the piano and composed something she called The Dead Princess Song. Excellent title. Someone left an accordion beside a garbage bin. Mystery. Morris began writing these down.

One afternoon a friend asked, “Doesn’t it bother you that you can’t do what you used to do?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re happy.”

“Sometimes.”

“How?”

Morris thought about it.

“I think you’re assuming happiness requires things to be going well.”