“Ahhh, I feel like I should,” said Nayan, drawing an apologetic breath through his teeth. Not certain how much appreciation and awe was appropriate given that ‘Muse Trueblood’ sounded extremely familiar, a name that could have crossed his path at some point through the speakers of a dilapidated radio somewhere in an MSF medical outpost. In the back waters and gutted villages of India where a strain of American music interrupted the rest of the world an reminded him there was one outside the one he was in. Trueblood. Trueblood… He snapped his fingers. “Right! Wait. No. Yes. Muse Trueblood. She did that cover, right?”
He paused, one hand out in a ‘wait, wait’ gesture, eyes searching the desk as if for the name of the song so popular that it – like all the mainstream big name media storm music of the States – made its through even the dark atmosphere in which he tended to work and got people dancing around radios. Girls wriggling in joy to a static spliced song from a world far and away from vaccination shots and refugee camps; Dadhija, Aaina, Valli and her little sisters mock disco dancing in the back of the examination room – what was the name of that song?
His lips twitched up. “Son of a Preacher Man,” he said, a touch of triumph in his tone. He glanced at Brodie. “Is that right?”