Chapter One
Beale Street Blues
Jenny’s guitar hit the downbeat—sharp, clean, perfect—when sirens sliced through the music. Half a verse died in her throat. Cops again.
Beale Street exploded around her. Music, shouting, fried grease in the air, and the thud of boots chasing her band close behind. Their third street-corner set cut short that day, they bolted through the madness, instruments clattering as they dodged beggars, kids, and shopkeepers waving fists.
“Prestissimo! Feet make a beat!” Jenny bellowed, voice fierce, commanding. Even running for her life, she led the tempo.
The others scrambled to keep up, their wide-eyed grins betraying the exhilaration of the chase, even as the threat of capture loomed. For Jenny, every pursuit was just another show, another moment to play the city’s endless stage, even if tonight’s audience was made up of furious store owners and an all-too-eager cop with a whistle.
Their escape route twisted past a dimly lit pawn shop. A flickering TV in the window caught Jenny’s eye, halting her for a split second. A news anchor’s voice cut through the night, calm against pandemonium.
“The world’s first trillionaire,” the anchor said, “will be the one who strikes gold in space—literally—by mining asteroids for rare metals.”
Gold-lined rocks spun across the screen, glowing like treasure adrift in blackness. Jenny’s reflection ghosted over the glittering void—sweat on her face, dust in her hair, a stolen guitar clutched to her side.
She didn’t wait to hear the rest.
“Come on!” she snapped.
Whistles shrieked behind them, joined by heavy footfalls and shouted orders. Jenny’s eyes darted left and right, scanning for an opening—somewhere to hide, to lose their pursuers, to buy just enough time to escape. None came.
“They’re too close!” Jenny yelled, her voice sharp as she skidded to a halt at the mouth of an alley. She spun around, her crew nearly colliding into her. “We’ve got to split up!”
“Split up?!” K-Mic’s voice cracked. “They’ll pick us off like flies!”
“No choice!” Jenny barked, her eyes fierce. “We regroup at the command center. No excuses!”
The band hesitated for a heartbeat, each face reflecting the same mix of fear and trust. Jenny pointed down the alley. “James, Bess—go that way and cut through Second. K-Mic, Los—take Front and stay low. I’ll draw them toward Union.”
“You can’t—” James started, but Jenny silenced him with a glare.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, softer now, though the fire in her eyes didn’t waver. “The gazebo. Don’t stop. Don’t get caught.”
One by one, they nodded, exchanging fleeting glances before peeling off in different directions. Jenny took a deep breath, gripping her guitar tighter as she stepped boldly into the open street, the cop’s whistle piercing the night once again.
River Garden Park was quiet, almost pretending to be safe. The gazebo stood in the center, its white wooden beams faintly illuminated by the shimmer of streetlights lining the Mississippi River. The park’s serene beauty was a stark contrast to the disorder they had just escaped: flower beds spilling over with blooms, the quiet rustle of leaves, and the steady murmur of the river beyond.
James Bell was the first to arrive, breathless and clutching his keyboard case like a lifeline. He ducked under the gazebo roof and scanned the paths—one eye on the trail, the other on the shadows. His chest rose and fell in fast bursts, but the faster his heart raced, the calmer he felt. Since the day his dad’s heart gave out and his mom stopped recognizing his name, James had learned how to run the fear out of his body.
Bess stumbled in next, her fiddle bouncing against her side as she climbed the steps. She dropped to her knees beside him, her face pale but determined.
“Where’s Jenny?” she asked.
“Still playing decoy,” James said, eyes locked on the distant glow of downtown.
K-Mic arrived a minute later, Los right behind him.
“Made it,” K-Mic panted, leaning on a post. “Saw a cop take a turn down Main. Either we’re clear or he’s setting a world record for the world’s slowest ambush.”
They huddled together, the rush still buzzing in their veins as they waited. The minutes stretched on, each one heavier than the last. Finally, a figure emerged from the shadows, moving with quiet urgency.
Jenny stepped into view. Her hair was wild, her face streaked with dirt, her eyes burning. Dropping her guitar case onto the floor with a thump, she climbed onto one of the benches, standing tall above the crew as they collapsed into their usual spots, their adrenaline giving way to exhaustion.
“Alright, everyone, take a second to catch your breath,” Jenny said, reaching into her bag and tossing each of them a protein bar she had swiped from a hotel lobby. “Eat up. We need energy for tomorrow.”
The bars disappeared fast. Wrappers crinkled. Shoulders sagged. Jenny watched them settle, dirty, tired, loyal.
“Listen up,” she began, voice low and steady. “Tomorrow, same routine. We play our sets, keep the music tight, keep the crowd focused, and keep your eyes open for easy marks. Phones, wallets, jewelry — if it’s loose…”
The crew finished together, without missing a beat. “You better produce.”
James nodded, chewing. Bess pulled out a notebook, scribbling notes as Jenny continued.
“K-Mic, Los. Front Street during lunch. It’s packed. People juggling their lives, not watching their stuff. Bess, recon. I want maps of every bakery, grocery store, and restaurant. Figure out who’s dumping fresh stock and when. And James…” She pointed. “You’ll stick with me. We’ll scope out the park crowd for anyone ripe for a little extra… contribution to our cause.”
Los smirked, leaning back with a theatrical flourish. “You make it sound like we’re doing charity work.”
Jenny didn’t blink. “Charity starts at home. And right now, everyone here is home. Except you, Mr. Soft Sheets. So hit the yellow path, go enjoy your warm bed while the rest of us stretch out on our plush, splintered floor.”
Los stood and bowed. “Court Jester at your service, Madame. I’ll be sure to fluff the pillows in your honor.” He swept a hand in front of him like a stage magician. “Court Jester, dismissed.”
The crew chuckled. The tension thinned. Los gave a playful wave and slipped into the dark. Jenny stayed standing on the bench a moment longer, watching the shadows swallow him. Then she hopped down.
“Alright,” she said, brushing her hands on her pants. “Let’s finish the plan for tomorrow—quick and dirty.”
Her voice was like a captain—measured, certain, relentless. Plans wove into place like chords of a song. She laid it out fast, who was running point, who was watching the crowd, which corners they would hit first, which markets were likely to toss bread or fruit behind the bins. The others leaned in, nodding, catching each detail like it mattered.
When she finished, no one said a word. They settled under the gazebo, falling into their usual head-to-belly stack, arms crossed, eyes half-closed, bodies overlapping like puzzle pieces. The wind rustled through the trees. Somewhere down Riverside, a subwoofer thumped past.
A single laugh broke the silence, quick, unexpected. It rippled through the circle. One belly trembling beneath one head, setting off the next, and the next. Laughter spread like a chain reaction. Real, reckless, uncontrollable, the kind that shook your ribs and forgot the rules.
Jenny sat up, leaning against a splintered beam, her guitar in her lap like a shield. The strings hummed under her thumb; she wasn’t playing yet, just feeling them.
“I’ve been working on something,” she said, almost too soft to hear.
The others quieted. They knew that tone.
“It’s about this place, our little corner of the world.” She nodded toward the slatted wooden roof, where the night slipped through in quiet streaks—stars flickering between beams, moonlight spilling in like silver secrets.
“This gazebo…” She trailed off, and her voice faltered for just a breath. “This is the last place I remember being a kid.”
They looked at her.
“Before Dak disappeared, this was our ship. We’d take turns being the captain. He always made us count down. He said we couldn’t blast off without it.”
A silence settled, deeper now.
“I was ten. One second we were playing rocket ship, and the next…” She swallowed. “Well. You know the rest.”
No one said a word. But the air shifted.
“Now I’m sixteen. Still here. Still launching.”
She strummed once, softly. Just enough for the note to hang.
She glanced around the park. “I watched a man sleep under that bench not long ago. Same bench Dak and I stood on when we shouted our countdown.” Her voice dropped. “Sometimes a place can hold both the blastoff and the crash.”
She lifted her arm and drew an arc in the air, sweeping past the broken lights, past the benches where the old men played dominoes, past the alley where K-Mic once got jumped and still joked his way through the bruises.
“I’m calling it Rocket in the Park.”
Her eyes flicked to the horizon like it was daring her to try. And somewhere beneath it all, in the quiet between the chords, the rocket hummed to life.
[Verse 1 – Jenny]
When the streets run wild and the night turns cold,
When the world feels heavy and the lies get old,
We find our way to the place we know,
Where dreams take flight and the stars still glow.
Under the beams of our secret retreat,
It’s the heart of the park, where we always meet.
Bess pulled her knees to her chest, rocking slightly, eyes closed. She knew this feeling.
K-Mic tapped a rhythm lightly against his leg, following the strum.
[Chorus]
This is our rocket in the park,
Our haven shining in the dark.
From here, we launch to skies unknown,
Far from the filth and the stench we’ve known.
In our command center, we dream and we play,
A vessel of hope to take us away.
James straightened, his fingers already moving over invisible keys, mapping out the melody in his head.
[Verse 2 – Jenny]
No matter how far or how fast we run,
This place calls us back when the day is done.
Through the chases and chaos, we’re scattered and torn,
But the gazebo’s our beacon where we’re reborn.
It’s a ship, it’s a home, it’s a canvas of light,
It’s where we imagine a world that feels right.
Jenny’s voice dipped lower, softer, like a secret.
[Chorus]
This is our rocket in the park,
Our haven shining in the dark.
From here, we launch to skies unknown,
Far from the filth and the stench we’ve known.
In our command center, we dream and we play,
A vessel of hope to take us away.
Bess’ hand flexed against the wood beside her, like she could already feel her bow dragging across the strings.
[Bridge]
We countdown the seconds—five, four, three, two, one,
Lift off together, toward the sun.
Out past the crowds, the noise, the decay,
To a life we imagine, far away.
In the quiet of night, we soar as one,
A sanctuary beneath the stars we’ve spun.
James, without thinking, started humming a quiet harmony.
[Outro]
The world can chase us, break us apart,
But it can’t touch the dreams that live in our hearts.
We’ll always return to this sacred space,
Our rocket in the park, our launching place.
Jenny let the final note linger in the cool night air. Above them, stars glimmered through the slats in the gazebo roof. For a long moment, no one spoke.
James exhaled, slow and full. Bess wiped her eyes and gave a quiet nod. K-Mic grinned, then tapped the wood like a slow clap. They didn’t need to say it. The song had landed.
A low sound cut the silence: James’s stomach growling. K-Mic tapped his belly like knocking on an empty fridge. “That bar was a warm-up act. My stomach’s still waiting on the headliner.”
“Same,” Bess whispered. “I haven’t had anything hot in three days.”
James leaned back against a post. “I saw the sandwich cart guy toss a whole tray in the trash after lunch. I was gonna grab it later but…” He shrugged. “Cops came before I could.”
Jenny didn’t respond. She stared through the slats in the gazebo roof, her jaw clenched. Her fingers tapped the neck of her guitar like it was a detonator.
James spoke gently. “You okay?”
“No,” Jenny said. “We can’t keep getting chased like this. Every day it’s the same. We find a good corner, get two verses in, and boom. Sirens.”
“You think they’re watching us now?” Bess asked.
“I know they are,” Jenny snapped. “The shop owners call us in the second we plug in or pull a crowd. We’re not musicians to them. We’re noise. Street trash. Threats.”
K-Mic grinned. “Oh yeah. I’m sure that lady with the lavender handbag called 911 because I was playing rhythm on a trash can lid.”
Jenny looked at them all. “We have music. We have a message. We have each other. That’s why they hate us.” She exhaled, sharp and tired. “But we don’t just play for the music.”
They all knew what she meant.
“When we play long enough, the crowd builds. People start filming us. Singing along. Some even follow us corner to corner trying to catch a set.”
Bess nodded. “There was that couple last week — came from Uptown just to hear us play again.”
Jenny gave the faintest smile. “Yeah. And when it really clicks, when we’re tight and the rhythm’s right, cash hits the case. Real cash. Enough to buy food. Maybe even rest for a night.”
James added, “And if the crowd’s big enough, they stop watching their bags. Phones. Leftover food. That’s when we move.”
K-Mic raised his hand. “For the record, I don’t pickpocket. I creatively relocate unguarded merchandise.”
Jenny’s smile vanished. “We all do what we have to. I’m the distraction. If I can hold their eyes, you’ve got sixty seconds to make it count.”
Her throat tightened, but she didn’t stop. Jenny looked down at her fingers, calloused and blistered, a fresh split beneath her thumbnail from today’s cut-short set. The strings on her guitar were wearing thin. So was her hope.
“But we haven’t had a full set in days. No crowds. No cash. No cover. No food. And if we don’t figure out how to sing a whole damn song without getting shut down…”
The last words barely escaped her lips. “…Dak’s never going to hear me.”
She looked away too fast. The others said nothing. Then James spoke, soft but certain. “He will.”
“No,” Jenny said. “He has to.”
She let the silence punch a hole in the moment. Then she blinked hard, swallowed it down, and stood a little taller. She smiled softly and crossed her arms.
The final note of Rocket in the Park still hovered, caught between the beams. Jenny raised an eyebrow, her voice lighting the night. “Don’t tell me you were just sitting there gawking while I was singing. You better have been thinking about how you’ll be playing your parts when we perform it.”
Her voice carried a playful challenge, rising with a spark of command. “James, what kind of melody are you hearing for those keys? K-Mic, you’ve got rhythm in your blood. What’s the beat to get this rocket off the ground?”
The bandmates exchanged glances, snapping out of their trance. Jenny’s words were less a question than a command, a reminder that their music was a team effort and that every note and every chord mattered.
All around them, the eclectic, pulsating sounds of bands and instruments from Beale Street clashed and mingled—trumpets wailing over bass thuds, snare rolls crackling under electric guitar riffs. The city’s tumult felt distant here, its chaos muted by the sanctuary of River Garden Park. The gazebo stood like a secret shelter, a place stitched together not by wood and screws, but by memory, rhythm, and scraps of hope.
Huddled beneath its slatted roof, the bandmates sprawled across the floor. No one spoke. Their bodies rested. Their breathing synced. Above them, stars peeked through the beams.
Jenny closed her eyes. In her mind, the beams weren’t wooden slats. They were control panels, glowing, blinking, ready. The guitar resting on her chest? The helm. And the gazebo, tucked behind the trees, away from cops and chaos? Not a shelter. A launch pad.
One that might carry them somewhere better, somewhere with music, with fairness, with peace—maybe even with Dak.
She sat up slowly, careful not to break the shape of her group still huddled beside her. Then her voice cut through the dark, low, steady, clear. “Alright, crew. Strap in. Prepare for liftoff.”
She didn’t have to explain. They already knew. This was their ritual. Their escape route. The one thing that still worked.
James tapped a rhythm on his Casio, beep-beep-whirr, his best impression of an ignition system. K-Mic picked it up on the floorboards, drumming out a heartbeat that sped toward liftoff. Jenny clutched her guitar like a captain at the helm.
“Ignition in three… two… one…” She paused just long enough for the breath to catch. “Blast off!”
The gazebo didn’t move—not really. But every one of them felt it. The floor buzzed under their backs. The air thickened. Gravity loosened, because they let it.
And just like that, they rose. Through the branches. Past the rustling trees. Straight into a sky sharp with stars.
“We’re off!” K-Mic shouted, arms wide, eyes gleaming. Then he broke into his signature two-step—shoulders in, shimmy, shoulders out—his personal launch sequence. “Blast-off swag engaged!”
“Quick detour, Captain!” Bess pointed left, her grin huge. “Let’s swing by Beale Street.”
Jenny steered the imaginary controls, tilting them hard. “Hold on, crew. We’re flying low.”
Their voices became the ship. Their laughter, the fuel. They leaned over phantom glass windows, waving to the city below—to the kids still warming their hands by trash fires, to the mothers huddled in doorways, to the old versions of themselves still lingering in alleyways.
“Hang on down there!” K-Mic shouted. “We’ll send postcards from the stars!”
The iconic pulse of Beale Street returned—saxophones, neon signs, sequined dresses. In their cockpit, they danced around rooftops, adding their own rhythm to the city’s song.
“Careful, Jenny!” Bess called. “You’re about to clip City Hall!”
Jenny grinned and yanked the controls. “Let’s give it a well-needed buzz cut.”
Laughter erupted—loud, reckless, teenage. The kind you feel in your chest. The kind you almost forgot you had.
The rocket—that wasn’t a rocket—climbed higher. Through clouds. Past lights. Below them, Memphis shrank to glitter. Above them, the stars blinked like old friends.
Jenny strummed a single chord, airy and dreamy. “Welcome to the stars, you offbeat legends.”
They drifted in silence. Below them, the Earth curved wide and bright—blue oceans, glowing cities, clouds like brushstrokes.
Bess leaned forward, her eyes fixed on the swirl of color beneath them. “It looks… different from up here,” she whispered. “Like it could actually be good.”
K-Mic exhaled through his nose, slow and soft. “Like it’s trying. Like maybe it hasn’t given up.”
No one spoke after that. They just stared.
Then Bess pointed skyward. “There. The Big Dipper.” She lowered her hand to her chest. “My grandma used to say she stirred her meatball sauce with it. Swore the stars were her kitchen lights. She’d wave her spoon at the sky and say they were making sure she got the seasoning right.”
A few chuckles. Then quiet.
“I didn’t know my mom,” Bess continued. “She died right after I was born. But my grandma, she filled in every blank space. Sat me on her lap, read me books about everything. Stars. Memphis history. Punk rock. I was reciting constellations before I could spell my name.” She smiled at the memory, voice steady with pride. “She always said the stars were stories. If I could learn them all, I’d never lose my way.”
The others watched the sky, silent. They weren’t holding onto wood. They were holding onto the moment. Not because the rocket was real, but because the story was.
A silence followed. But it wasn’t empty. It was sacred.
Then Jenny began to hum. Soft. Warm. The first notes of Starlight Dreams floated into the night. James tapped phantom keys. K-Mic kept a quiet beat.
The rocket never left the ground. But somehow, they rose anyway.
[Verse 1 – Jenny]
We lift from the ground, leave the streets behind,
Through clouds and the chaos, we’re free in our minds.
The city fades, the stars grow near,
A world so small, yet shining clear.
K-Mic nodded, tapping his knuckles against the wooden floor in rhythm.
Bess swayed gently, fingers brushing the strings of her fiddle like she was already hearing the solo.
[Chorus – All]
Drifting through the endless sky,
Far from the noise, where dreams can fly.
Starlight whispers, calling our name,
Up in the heavens, we’re never the same.
James, without thinking, harmonized.
Jenny smiled but kept playing, letting the voices stack, letting the song grow.
[Rapped by K-Mic]
From alleys and shadows, we rise as one,
Racing the moon, chasing the sun.
The Earth below, a glowing sphere,
A beauty unknown till we came here.
K-Mic’s voice was smooth, effortless.
Bess grinned. “That was clean.”
[Chorus – All]
Drifting through the endless sky,
Far from the noise, where dreams can fly.
Starlight whispers, calling our name,
Up in the heavens, we’re never the same.
[Outro – All]
And when we land, back where we’ve been,
Our rocket waits to launch again.
The stars remain within our sight,
Our dreams take flight in the still of night.
The music swelled. For a moment, they were truly there. Above it all. Beyond it all.
Jenny held the final chord, fingers pressed firm. Then her hand dropped. The strings went still. One by one, they opened their eyes. Memphis hadn’t changed. But something in them had.
Jenny tapped her guitar like a console. “Alright, crew. Time to head home. Prepare for landing.”
They closed their eyes again. No countdown this time. Just the quiet drift downward, the soft return to earth. No lights. No rumble. Just wood under their backs, leaves rustling above. They lay still, breathing in sync, the flight behind them.
“Mission accomplished,” Jenny whispered. Her guitar rested in her lap. Around her, her crew began to drift off—not to space, but to sleep.
Jenny fought to keep her eyes from closing, as if staying awake might somehow keep the dream alive a little longer. Around her, the gazebo had fallen still. Only the leaves whispered overhead, brushing against the hush of the night.
But in her mind, the silence gave way to music and light. She was no longer in Memphis. She stood beneath towering rigging and blinding spotlights, on a stage that stretched farther than she could see. The crowd before her shimmered like water—thousands of faces lit by phone screens and flickering lighters, eyes lifted toward her.
Her voice rose to meet them, clear and steady at first, then building with every note, every lyric. She sang not for applause, not for fame, but for distance, for reach. Because somewhere beyond the noise, somewhere past the last row of seats, her brother might be listening. And if the song was strong enough, if her voice could rise above it all, maybe he’d hear her.
As the final chord of the encore rang out, Jenny stepped forward into a single golden spotlight. The roar of the crowd faded into silence. She clutched the mic in both hands. Her throat tightened.
“Dakota, I miss you so,” she said. “If you can hear me… please let me know. @WhereAreYouDak.”
The crowd erupted again, louder than before. But the ache in her chest didn’t ease. She bowed quickly and turned from the lights. There wasn’t time to stop. Another venue waited. Another chance.
The dream faded the way it always did, slow and unfinished. Her arms loosened. The guitar shifted softly in her lap. And as her eyes fluttered shut, one last thought remained, quiet and stubborn.
One day, her voice would reach him.
Jenny stirred, then stilled. Her eyes fluttered but didn’t open. The sound of wind in the trees blended with something else—children shouting, sneakers slapping pavement, the soft clang of swings.
She was ten again. The sun was warm, the sky wide and cloudless. The Bosselys, her and Dak’s foster parents at the time, had brought them to the park—Jenny, Dak, James, and a few others, one of the last hot days before school started. A rare trip. A good day.
The newly built gazebo stood at the center of the park, its white slats bright and dappled with gold from the shifting trees. Yellow-painted paths branched out from it in every direction—toward the playground, the baseball fields, and the trails that curled into the woods.
Jenny ran, bare knees skimming the grass, hair loose, feet flying. Dak was right behind her, giggling between breaths. His little legs pumped hard, tongue poking out in concentration.
“Wait up, Jenny Bee!”
She laughed and slowed just enough. He caught her hand—tiny, warm fingers gripping hers—and she tugged him forward. They took off again, a blur of limbs and sunlight.
Kathy and Joe Bossely sat on a bench, books open, eyes down. They didn’t glance up. The kids raced past them, shouting and laughing, but the Bosselys stayed still, like the noise didn’t belong to them.
The park buzzed with motion—tag, monkey bars, cartwheels in the grass. Then someone shouted, “Hide-and-seek!” and the world shifted.
Jenny pressed both hands over her eyes and leaned against the gazebo post. “Ten… nine… eight…”
Dak bounced beside her, whispering fast and proud. “You’ll never find me, Jenny Bee!”
She peeked through her fingers just in time to see him dash toward the swings. “Three… two… one… Ready or not, here I come!”
Jenny grinned and bolted. She found James first, tucked behind the slide. Two more crouched beneath a park bench. A squeal from the bushes gave away another.
But no Dak.
She circled the monkey bars, peered behind the trash bin, checked beneath the slide. Still no Dak.
“Dak?” she called, trying to sound playful. “Okay, you win! Come out!”
The sun felt harsher now. The grass, longer. The game suddenly too quiet. “Dakota?” she tried again, louder this time. No answer.
She jogged around the gazebo, breath coming quicker. The others were watching now, their play paused.
Kathy and Joe were still on their bench, buried in their books.
“Dak?” she yelled. Her voice cracked.
She ran. Past the swings. Past the baseball field. Down each yellow path curling toward the woods. Nothing.
She doubled back, scanning everything, under every bench, around every tree. “Dak!” she screamed now, panic cracking through her chest. “Kathy! Joe! Help! I can’t find Dak!”
They barely moved.
She stumbled across the field, searching the edges, the shadows, the trail that disappeared into the trees. No giggle. No footsteps. No voice. Only wind. Only silence.
And then—
The sound blurred. The light fractured. The memory faded.
Jenny gasped awake, chest tight, the air around her too still. She was sixteen now. And the game had never ended. Dak never came out of hiding. Not in six years. Not once.
The gazebo was quiet again. Just the dark. Just her breath. Just the stars.
She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, the sweat cold now. She reached for her notebook, scratched out a line, then another. The melody returned slowly, shaped by the ache that never left. And when the song settled on the page, and her hand finally stopped moving, she closed her eyes again.
This time, sleep took her.
Morning sunlight filtered through the gaps in the gazebo’s beams, painting the sleeping bandmates in soft, golden light. The city was already stirring—sirens, distant car horns, a burst of laughter, and the rhythm of Beale Street waking up one note at a time.
Jenny was the first to move. As always.
She hummed, quiet at first, like she was still testing whether the day would let her sing. Then it grew, shaping into melody, the newest lines of her song drifting into the morning air.
James rubbed his eyes. K-Mic groaned and stretched. Bess blinked, already mouthing harmony.
The music pulled them up, one by one, not with alarms or orders, but with rhythm, memory, and the promise of a plan already in motion.
Another day waited. Jenny was already moving.
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