PROLOGUE
MADISON
I’m not sure when I started hearing the music.
Time is funny like that when you’re unconscious.
All I know for certain is at some point, in place of the beeps and the quiet voices and the soft footsteps, I began to hear music.
A gentle strumming on the guitar and a warm, raspy voice that settled something in my soul as I lay there in my hospital bed, only slightly aware of what was happening around me.
I knew I was hurt. I knew I was tired. I knew I was getting poked and prodded.
But it was a muffled mess.
Except for that voice and the sound of the guitar.
It became what I yearned for.
Day in and day out.
When I finally opened my eyes, I didn’t know it would be several years before I would hear it again.