Late evening, while lugging the cello through an otherwise deserted residential street in the Greenwood neighbourhood, through a light Seattle drizzle: a young man in a hoodie, walking in a dog in the other direction, in passing, holds out a card and a pen, and asks me: “Hey, want to sign a get well card for Frank?”

“Uh, sorry, I don’t know Frank,” I stammer.

“Yeah well, noone else does either,” he mutters, and walks off.

Poor Frank.