“So much like Dad. Really, I think you were a lot alike. And I think … I think you’d have enjoyed each other. You should’ve had the chance to find out.” On her tablet below, the music stopped, then started again with what she recognized as The Byrds’ “Turn! Turn! Turn! (To Everything There Is a Season)” because her father had often played it and, to her, other ancient records on his old turntable in his studio. “I guess that suits the moment,” she muttered.
