Beads of sweat poured down her face as she stood under the parasol, staring into the crowd. The anxiety was excruciating; visceral, in the most literal sense of the word. Six months ago, Penny had bought an antique tenor banjo at a thrift store in the desert on a long road trip. The price tag said it was $25, but she easily haggled the shop owner down to $17. Penny had never been particularly musically gifted; she’d played piano for years as a child until her parents took mercy on her and told her she could stop. You know how parents are; they want their kids to be talented, and can’t ever accept that maybe sometimes their kids just aren’t exceptionally gifted at any one thing. It was hard enough for Penny to keep a tune straight while singing karaoke. But she had always loved the banjo, and she had always loved performing and making a spectacle of herself. The anxiety itself was exhilarating. The potential judgment of strangers raised the stakes of every move. She plucked the first series of notes; the first chord to match the mandolin. Her voice wavered as she sang into the microphone, faking her best version of Southern accent. The crowd looked calm and underwhelmed--maybe even bored--but she smiled.