2005, January 17.

  Singers' convictions.

  It was just insane—the new Green Day album had officially dropped. American Idiot, with its brilliant lyrics, was pying nonstop on every radio station. A thunderous hit, echoing through every train car, every ptform, every campus. The anthem of rock seemed to shake awake the dormant bones of those heirs who, for too long, had kept their necks stiff, needing a jolt to break free. It was rock that stirred the soul, taking them back to their tribal roots, to times only dust could testify.

  It was a torch bzing forward—not quite like the old days, but still, they embraced something complex, a surge of willpower that awakened them from that long, childish dream.

  –Damn, it’s really good, – said Johnny Ridder, a 21-year-old business student from New Jersey. He wasn’t widely known, but he was a good friend. His older brother had passed down a taste for rock—vinyl records, beers tipped back, and listening to full albums start to finish.

  –I didn’t get much of it, – said Cra, his girlfriend. –But when you mentioned it’s a full story from beginning to end, I kind of fell for it. Who comes up with something like that?–

  She preferred ‘80s balds, thanks to her mom, and hated hip hop, though she wouldn’t deny there were a few tracks she secretly hummed when they pyed.

  –We have to see them in October, – Johnny said.

  Cra was scanning the news. There it was, like a fshing banner: a colboration between Billy Carson and Green Day. Big news—Johnny owned every Billy album twice, once for the studio collection and once for live performances, plus DVDs with music videos from MTV.

  –Looks like they’re teaming up with Billy Carson. The album drops in March. They say it’s going to be a bombshell, – said Cra.

  Johnny jumped from his seat, spilling the st of his beer. His shirt was a mess, but he didn’t care. He saw the article—it said it was a colboration for rock and by rock. A quote read: “Green Day has made great albums before, but now they’ve made a f*ing monster. And our colb? It ain’t vegetarian. Just listen.”

  “I can’t believe this album has that kind of power,” read one of the comments below in bck-backgrounded skepticism. Some people cimed they already bought it and loved it, but no one seemed to realize yet that Billy might join Green Day on some tour dates. That made getting tickets even more urgent.

  They were 30—affordable. The guy took a deep breath. He’d just need to save a little, and they’d be his.

  –Damn, big things are coming, – Johnny said, sure that the next few months would blow wide open—and music, yes, music would once again become a part of his life. Just like those old albums now belonged to him.

  –You need to take a breath, cowboy, – Cra said, knowing deep down that this might be Billy’s first flop. No one knew what he was up to these days. News about him was all over the pce. She’d seen the photo—completely bald. He’d shaved his head during a drunken spree, but he looked amazing. His eyes were intense and magnetic.

  Everything seemed like a joke—except when he sang.

  Who is that singer everyone’s watching so closely? The distance seems to shrink over time. A motto, or a myth.

  Billy was in the tropical heat of Brazil, January 18th, kicking off his tour across the country. Four venues, two dates each—it was a gift for those without many chances.

  His phone was still glitchy ever since he’d ghosted the U.S., but he could still connect using the satellite network Jerry bought him. He checked his messages: twelve missed ones from Scarlett. He grimaced. He was tired of the retionship and wanted out—he just needed to end it, or disappear somewhere else.

  Gwen: “A colb?”

  Billy: “Nothing you wouldn’t want, babe.”

  Gwen: “Then why suggest it?”

  Billy: “Because you’re talented. A great singer. Why would I suggest anything else?”

  He switched topics. Time to y out some honey traps. Take Merche, the skinny tattoo artist—she used to send him ￡3,000 every month, clothes, gifts, letters. Sometimes she’d call. She’d answer with fear in her voice. He was like a dark void—he couldn’t let her go. But that possessiveness was something he hated in himself.

  –Hey, wonderboy, we’ve got a gig tomorrow, – said Jack Sauce. He and Connor were riding the same strange wave. They’d all dyed their hair bck.

  Well, Billy was bald—a single line carved from his brow to his nape, and his buzz cut gave him that reckless, tough look that couldn’t be faked.

  –You psychos, – Billy muttered. He missed the warmth of a woman in his arms. He grabbed his PSP and opened his game collection—a gift from Sony. He was their PSP poster boy now. They’d pay him 2 million, and he had a dedicated blog for reviewing games—just a few for now, but commissions were coming. Soon, it’d be real money.

  Prince of Persia, Tony Hawk’s, Metal Gear, Crash, Burnout Legends.

  –We’re here to film you, – said Victoria.

  –Well, I hope you do. I’ve got a lot of restaurants to visit, – Billy replied.

  –You can’t. People are going nuts. We can only let you visit pces that are high-end and secure, – said Michael Ockrs. Going out was a total pain. Billy made a face.

  –Makeup? – he asked.

  –We can’t let anyone recognize you. It’s hard to manage your security. But at least we’ve got the model helping us dig for info we don’t have, – Michael replied.

  Billy had a four-person team, but in Brazil, Warner wouldn’t risk it—they brought in three additional special agents. Just their presence made him stand out like royalty.

  –Then I guess I can’t say no, – Billy said.

  –We’ve got several entries for various spots where you can do reviews. And there’s a beach party too, – Michael sighed.

  –Well, that sounds more like me, – Billy replied, a little brighter now. Victoria, Nico, and Octavio Brown would run a high-end blog covering his life, documenting everything clearly and showing a raw, more personal side of Billy.

  Victoria handed him a script.

  –Piece of cake, – the boy said.

  ....