POV Enrico

The stadium had filled up long before the scheduled time. I paced back and forth in the dressing room, the guitar hanging from my body, feeling a kind of anticipation I had never experienced before.

It wasn’t fear. It was expectation. For the first time, that show didn’t carry the weight of a messy past, of comparisons, of ghosts. It was just me. And the name on the jumbotron confirmed it: ENRICO HUNT.

“Dad, did I look good?” Jimi spun in place, dazzled by his leather jacket ...