“We’re going to live here?” Rye asked in shock. He turned to the manager. The man was joking. The real house the band mates would share was down the road, perhaps in the next town over.

The man looked down at the map then up at the decrepit building and nodded. “This is the place,” he said with forced cheer.

“It’s got a certain character,” Michael said softly as he stepped up the creaking porch stairs. Rye expected the wood to give way under his feet but it held. “When we aren’t writing or rehearsing we can work on fixing up the place. When it’s done it’ll be beautiful.”

“And we’ll be old men,” Gareth muttered. “I’m sleeping downstairs. I don’t want the floor to cave in under me while I’m out for the night.”

“There’s a basement,” Kevin remarked, leading the way into the building.

“We’re going to live here?” Rye repeated as he followed the older boys into the building. He cast a glance at his sister. What, exactly, had they gotten themselves into?

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