pūnk

pūnk was halfway down the Hollow, carrying the boombox in both arms so it wouldn’t knock against the steps, when they heard the slap. It came from the bottom, where the morning light hadn’t reached yet. Tap, tap, slap. Tap, tap, slap.

A Hyena sat on the last step with a battered suitcase across their knees, keeping time with a brush worn down to a stub. The suitcase lid hung off one cracked hinge and smacked the side on every second beat. The Hyena didn’t seem to notice. Their head was down, and their foot was going.

pūnk had a joke ready. They always did.

“Why did the drummer bring a suitcase?” they called down. “In case they got a gig.”

The curved walls took it and handed it back. Got a gig. Got a gig. The punchline arrived twice, a little late, like a friend who’d missed the first laugh and wanted to be sure.

The Hyena looked up and laughed, not at the joke but at the walls.

“They always do that,” they said. “Osei. Sit if you’re sitting.”

pūnk sat one step up and set the boombox down. In a place like this it was far too loud, so they left it off and drummed two fingers on its case instead, soft, under Osei’s beat. The Hum ran underneath the pair of them, tight as it had been for weeks. Osei played against it like it was another drummer who wouldn’t take a hint.

Tap, tap, slap.

Every time the lid hit, pūnk’s fingers twitched. It was a cracked hinge, two screws and a bent plate. They could see the fix from here. They could feel the words I can mend that lined up behind their teeth.

A Deer came along the top of the steps with a steaming cup in each hand, honey and lemon on the air.

“Warm-Up,” the Deer said, and set one on the top step. “That’s for you, Osei. This one’s mine, so don’t look at it.” They went on along the rim without stopping.

Osei didn’t get up for it. “Mirren thinks I’ll sing tonight if I’m warm enough,” they said. “I won’t.”

The lid slapped again. pūnk opened their mouth to offer and shut it. Somebody here turned things down for a reason. You could hear it in how hard that brush came down.

“Do you like that sound?” they asked instead. “The lid.”

Osei stopped playing. For a moment the Hollow was quiet except for the echo of the last slap, twice, fading.

“I’d stopped hearing it,” Osei said slowly. “Fix the hinge. Don’t touch anything else.”

The only spare screw pūnk had was the one holding their carry-strap to the boombox. They thumbed it out before they could think too hard about it. The strap dropped, and the boombox slumped sideways against the step like it had been insulted.

Osei lifted the lid to let them work, just a crack. Beside the brush lay something long, wrapped in a blue cloth and tied with string. Osei shifted their knee across the gap, not quickly, just enough.

pūnk fixed the hinge and didn’t ask.

Osei played. Tap, tap, tap. No slap. They tilted their head at the empty second beat, listening for something that wasn’t there anymore, and whether they missed it, pūnk couldn’t tell.

They picked up the boombox by its handle, crooked, and stayed.