Novels by John Dave

The musicians' union medical board convened eleven days after the attack. Nathaniel noted the number the moment someone said the date out loud. The same eleven days that used to count down to something else entirely. Counting down had started to mean something different now.He'd been told to arrive early, and had spent forty minutes in a waiting room with two other people he assumed were there for entirely different reasons, neither of whom made eye contact with him or with each other. He wondered if that was a rule somewhere, an unspoken etiquette for waiting rooms built around bad news, or simply what happened naturally to people bracing for their own version of this particular morning.The hearing room was small and beige, built for exactly this kind of meeting and nothing else. There was a water pitcher on the table nobody touched, and a clock on the wall that ran a few minutes fast, the kind of detail Nathaniel found himself fixating on because it was easier than fixating on any

Greer had commandeered a small conference room on the hospital's third floor, the kind normally reserved for family meetings with oncologists. She'd turned it into something closer to a war room in under two days. Nathaniel was wheeled in a little after nine that morning, hands still wrapped. He'd been in a wheelchair only twice before this, both times brief, both times someone else steering him toward an X-ray or a scan. This felt different, more permanent somehow, though nothing about the chair itself had changed. He wasn't entirely certain what he'd agreed to, when Greer had asked him the night before to simply be there. She hadn't given him much choice in the asking either, if he was honest about it.There were folders on the table already, more of them than he expected. They were stacked with a neatness that suggested somebody had spent the small hours of the morning arranging and rearranging them until the order made sense. A pot of coffee sat untouched in the corner, the smell

Nathaniel found out the recital had happened without him from a nurse changing his dressing, who mentioned the date in passing the way people mention dates that don't mean anything to them personally. He did the math without meaning to. Halcyon Hall had gone on that night, exactly as scheduled. Someone else had walked out under those lights and played something. The program with his name still printed on it existed now only as a piece of paper somewhere, already out of date, already replaced.He wondered, distantly, who had played his piece, and immediately decided he didn't actually want to know. Some losses were better left unspecific.He thought about the eleven days he'd spent counting toward that stage, the particular ache of having wanted something so badly and so specifically. The wanting hadn't actually gone anywhere, he realized. It had just lost anywhere to go.Vivienne hadn't told him. She'd left after dinner the evening before, distracted in a way he'd stopped bothering to

Vivienne didn't go home. She hadn't planned to come here either, not really. If she'd planned anything at all in the last four days, it was never to sit in this booth again. But there was nowhere else the conversation she needed to have could actually happen, and some tired, practical part of her had simply pointed the car in this direction without consulting the rest of her.She got in her car and drove to the Windermere Club, to the same corner booth she had been finding herself in for longer than she wanted to admit. Leland Renwick had never once, in all these years, made her come to him. She used to think that was a kindness. She had stopped noticing, somewhere along the way, that it was a kindness at all.He was already there when she arrived, a drink in front of him that he wasn't in any hurry to finish. That was how he did everything. He didn't ask why she'd come. He never did. He simply made room for her across the table and waited, the way a man waits for something he already

Four days into the hospital, Nathaniel had learned the rhythm of the place well enough to predict most of it. The shift change at seven. The particular squeak of the food cart's wheel two rooms down. The way the surgeon's visits always came with a specific kind of quiet in her voice, a warning a moment before the news itself arrived.His hands were still wrapped past the wrist, propped on pillows the nurses adjusted every few hours like something fragile and easily misplaced. He had stopped asking when the bandages would come off. Nobody wanted to give him a date, which told him more than an actual date would have.That morning, the quiet meant something different. There was, she said, an experimental nerve-graft program with real published results. It was an option most patients with his kind of damage never even heard about, let alone had described to them in this much detail. For a moment, lying there, Nathaniel let himself feel something dangerously close to hope.She named a rese

The final dress rehearsal ran long. It always did, two days out, when everyone wanted one more pass at the movement that still wasn't quite settled. Nathaniel didn't mind. For the first time in eleven days, the number felt like something he could actually reach instead of something looming over him. The piece had finally settled into his hands the way it needed to.A couple of stagehands were still coiling cable near the loading doors when he passed through, and he lifted a hand to them without quite stopping. The lobby was already dark except for the exit signs. He liked the hall best like this, stripped of its afternoon bustle, just him and the sound still sitting in his chest. He left a little after midnight, still hearing the piece in his fingers, replaying phrases against the muscle memory of his hands as he walked to the garage.It was nearly empty at that hour. His car was parked on the third level, past a scatter of stragglers' cars and one overhead light that had been flicker