I'm at a conference of some kind, a motel. I have trouble locking the door of my cabin. I have trouble turning on the porch lights. I'm walking back to the main area. My cousin Abner, who I falsely call Nate, has a handmade guitar, a square board with three strings, one too loose to play. He hands it to me to play. I do quite well, singing a love song in a strong, clear, pretty voice. People like it.