A musician's logic.

The warm immediacy of the night pressed in and grew heavy and Raff became conscious of the sound of crickets. He eased his aim off the edge of the piano and looked down at the now useless left hand. The fingers were long and slender but were starting to curl inwards slightly, and he massaged his ring finger. It still wore the golden ring, given to him by a woman ten years ago. She had gone, but the ring was his.

A pianist, a musician who could not use half of his finely trained reflexes. What partnership could be hold with any instrument, let alone a piano? Laughter at such a scene echoed in his mind. But the sound was not a real sound, because no one had laughed, ...