November 1989 — Record One Studios, Sherman Oaks
I am leaning over my work table, a marker between my teeth, when Bush stops in front of me. He doesn't say anything right away. He just places his hands on the table, fingers spread, and looks at me with a strange expression — a mix of pride and nervousness.
"Ayla." His voice is low. "I need to talk to you. It's about your sketches."
I look up. Something in his tone freezes me.
"I showed them to someone. Michael saw them. He wants to meet you. Today."
What do you do?