“The sound of her father working – guitars wailing through the speakers, his slippered feet shuffling down the hall, his fingers punching away at the keyboard – was as comforting to her as a white noise machine. It meant he was there, he was writing, and that he was happy, in his way.”

“The sound of her father working – guitars wailing through the speakers, his slippered feet shuffling down the hall, his fingers punching away at the keyboard – was as comforting to her as a white noise machine. It meant he was there, he was writing, and that he was happy, in his way.”

— Emma Straub