For a moment, he stared into the camera.
Then someone entered the frame.
Frank.
He rested a hand on Dad’s shoulder.
“We’ve got his back, buddy.”
Two more men joined him. I recognized them from the pictures on the studio walls.
The bassist grinned.
“Besides, once you’re gone, we’re going to need a new guitarist.”
“And a singer,” the drummer added. “Preferably one who can actually hit the high notes.”
Dad laughed, wiping his face.
“You hear that, son? Apparently, they’re already planning to replace me.”
He looked at his former bandmates, then back at the camera.
“Seriously, though. These idiots have been my friends for most of my life. They’ll help you if you want to give music a shot. And if you don’t, they’ll respect that too.”