The band had rented a massive hillside house to record their newest album—a sprawling, echoey old place with creaky stairs, weirdly placed taxidermy, and a hot tub that probably hadn't seen a proper cleaning since Nixon was president. It was tradition by now: seclude themselves, bring the gear, bring the drama, and hopefully—hopefully—leave with a new record.
This time, though, there was a difference.
Christine was there.
Her voice, her piano, her steadiness. Her Christine-ness. It grounded everything.
Late one night, the house mostly quiet except for the distant hum of Lindsey's amp buzzing somewhere down the hall, Christine was sitting in her room sipping lukewarm chamomile tea, writing down some lyric ideas about seagulls and disillusionment. Just as she was scribbling the word serenade, she heard a noise through the wall.
It wasn't the usual creaks and groans of the old house, nor Mick stomping around barefoot looking for his "lucky" drumsticks. This was different—urgent, distressed.
She paused.
Then she recognized the voice.
Lori.
Christine immediately set down her tea and rushed out, padding down the hallway in her fuzzy slippers. She didn't knock. She didn't hesitate. They'd known each other since 1979. That was long enough to earn the right.
"Lori?" she whispered, stepping into the room.
Lori was thrashing gently, tangled in sheets, her face tight with fear. Christine touched her shoulder, firm but kind.
"Lori—hey. Hey. It's okay. It's just a dream."
Lori bolted awake, gasping, eyes wide. She blinked at Christine, clearly embarrassed.
"It's fine," Christine said gently, already sitting down at the edge of the bed. "It was just a dream."
"I'm not talking about it."
"I didn't ask you to. And I wasn't going to," Christine replied, smoothing her robe over her knees. "You're allowed to just... have a bad dream."
Lori sat up, sighing heavily, still tangled in covers.
Christine stayed for a few minutes, chatting about inconsequential things—whether the toaster was haunted, how Lindsey was still mad someone ate his seaweed snacks, how she was fairly certain Mick had been sleep-yodeling again.
Eventually, Lori's breathing calmed.
Christine gave her a soft pat on the knee and returned to her room, her tea now cold but her heart lighter.
The next day, the band was deep in recording mode. Stevie laid down harmonies while twirling scarves, Lindsey played twelve guitar takes while insisting each one was "subtly different," and Mick insisted they try adding castanets to a folk ballad. No one argued anymore. They just let him do it and muted the channel later.
At one point, Stevie burst into a fit of laughter mid-vocal.
John peeked over the mixing board. "Let me guess. Another talking fish situation?"
Stevie, still giggling, gave him the finger without missing a beat. "At least the fish liked me."
"That's not what he told me," John shot back.
"Tell the trout I'm blocking his number," she snapped, and the entire band howled.
They powered through the day, finishing up by dinnertime. Around 8:00, Stevie wandered outside and looked up at the clear sky. Stars blinked like Morse code across the inky black canvas. She clapped her hands.
