Sixty seconds is a very long time when your whole heart is hanging over the water.On the giant screen above Tokyo Dome, the countdown glowed in red numbers. Fifty-two. Fifty-one. Fifty. Fifty thousand people held their breath. Nobody coughed. Nobody moved. Even the glowing sticks in the crowd seemed to stop swaying.Charles sat behind his three buckets with his sticks raised. His hands would not stop shaking.On the screen, the wrapper swung in the wind. His mother had washed that cloth a thousand times in a cold river. She had wrapped him in it when he was a baby. She had wrapped it around his first drum, on the day he learned his first beat. Now it hung from a stranger's fingers above the black sea.Forty. Thirty-nine. Thirty-eight."Play, Charles," a voice whispered from the wings. It was Sophia. Tears were running down her face. "Please, teacher. Play."He did not answer. He looked at the screen, and he looked at the empty space beside his buckets where the paint tin should have