“I want to go in with her,” Aster insisted.

“The band’s manager barely allows anyone in the dressing room,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Better follow the producer’s rules, or you might lose access.”

“It’s okay, Aster.” I touched his chest—he was angry. “I’ll go first. You after.”

Before Aster could argue, I hopped the barrier from VIP to stage access, ensuring I’d reach the dressing room.

I’d always been polite—if my son’s health wasn’t at stake, ...