The bass from our cheap garage amp shook the tiny community hall so hard the floor vibrated beneath our boots. My band was halfway through a sloppy cover of The Clash, and sweat was pouring down my neck while maybe twenty people bounced around pretending our tiny town actually had a punk scene.
And there she was.
Smiling like the music had been written just for her.
Sarah knew every lyric before I even finished singing them. She clapped off-beat, spun in circles when the drums got louder, and shouted my name after every song like we were playing a stadium instead of a school fundraiser with flickering lights and broken chairs.
Most people noticed Sarah immediately because she had Down syndrome.
I noticed her because she looked happier than anyone else in the room.
