Edge Of Seventeen -

Marco turned up the volume. He didn't ask what was wrong. He just drove faster.

At the bridge, everything falls away. The guitar drops out. Just a voice and a shadow. Well, I went searchin' for an answer... But there is no answer. Only the rhythm. Only the edge. Only the number seventeen, which is the age you learn that love and loss are the same muscle. Edge Of Seventeen

You are seventeen, which means you are a raw nerve. Which means the world is a fist, and you are the glass. Stevie understood this. She wrote this song on a piano in a house full of ghosts, after a friend died, after a band died, while the white-winged dove outside the window kept singing the same flat note. Marco turned up the volume

"Yeah," she said, and the word felt like a cliff. "Let's go to the edge." At the bridge, everything falls away

The song on the radio was old, before either of them were born. A woman's voice, ragged and soaring, over a guitar that sounded like a drill or a prayer. Ooh, baby...

Lena rolled down the window. The humid air slapped her face. She stuck her arm out, palm flat, and let the resistance push her hand up and down. She was a wing. She was a fist.

"You want to go to the lake?" Marco yelled over the music.