Patrick pulled his fedora down on his light brown hair, shielding his face from the blowing wind while the unzipped sides of his leather jacket blew back in the rising storm. He glanced up at the grey-clouded sky, sure it would start pouring down on him any second.
His phone rang in his pocket. He attempted to wrestle it out with one hand while keeping his fedora from blowing away in the howling gale. He finally got it out. Pete was calling.
He accepted the call and put the phone up to his ear.
"Hey, Pete," he said.
"What's up, Fedorable?" Pete said. "Where are you?"
Patrick checked his surroundings, scanning for a familiar landmark. He couldn't find one, which worried him. Had he missed a turn?
"You know," he said into the phone, "I'm actually not sure."
"You're lost?" Pete exclaimed.
"I think so. Does the street name 'Willow Avenue' sound familiar to you?" Patrick said, finding a street sign.
Pete was silent.
"Petey?" Patrick asked. "You there?"
No answer.
"Hey, Wentz, if this is a joke, I'm gonna kill you," Patrick said.
Nothing.
"Pete?" Patrick asked in a small voice. He looked at his phone. Pete had hung up.
Patrick frowned. Pete never hung up without saying goodbye. Patrick waited for his buddy to call back, saying it was just an accident, but no call came.
Patrick was now genuinely scared. He was lost, Pete was gone, and now it was starting to storm. Leather jackets were not equipped for wind and rain, so he was starting to get cold.
He looked around, putting his phone in his jeans pocket, taking off his fedora, and shoving it in his backpack. He didn't want it to blow away.
He began to hum, turning around and deciding to go back the way he came. He was now drenched and shivering. Pete still didn't call.
After about ten minutes of relentless rain, it began to thunder. Patrick couldn't believe his luck. He searched and searched for a familiar street, but with every slap of his boots on the wet concrete, he got even more lost.
His humming escalated into soft singing, and he turned a corner at the end of the street. He sang louder and louder until the words were pouring out of his soul, up through his heart and out of his mouth, his voice filling the block with the air of a lost love. His predicament forgotten, he closed his eyes and finished the song, panting the slightest bit.
He heard faint clapping from across the street. He opened his green eyes and looked around, and standing on the opposite sidewalk from him was his best friend, Andy Hurley, smiling and clapping.
Patrick's cheeks flushed and he ran across the traffic-less street, pulling his friend into a hug. Andy laughed and said, "I keep telling you to sing like that in a studio or something, you're so good."
"Thanks, Andy," Patrick said. "But I can't do it without a drummer and a couple guitarists."
"Ha, ha," Andy replied humorously, and added, "Have you seen Pete? I went to his house but he didn't answer the door. I figured he was with you."
Patrick's smile vanished without a trace. "He called me earlier, but he hung up without saying goodbye."
Andy frowned. "That's not good. He never does that. Do you think something happened to him?"
"I don't know, I hope he's not—"
Patrick was interrupted by a force slamming into him, wrapping its arms around him, squeezing him so hard he nearly broke a rib.
Patrick pulled away and in front of him stood Pete, breathing hard.
"Pete!" Patrick shouted, throwing his arms around Pete and receiving a tight hug in return. When they finally broke apart, Patrick hit Pete on the side of the head, just above his ear, hard enough for it to sting.
"What was that for?" Pete asked defensively.
"That was for hanging up and leaving me alone in the rain! I thought something happened to you!" Patrick half-shouted, throwing his arms out and nearly hitting Andy in the face.
Pete grabbed Patrick's wrist and brought it down to the latter's side slowly, doing the same with the other. "Just promise me you'll never set foot on Willow Avenue again."
"Okay, but why?" Patrick said, confused.
Pete looked him dead in the eye. "Because that's where it started."
"Where what started, Pete?" Patrick asked.
"That's where the troopers are," Pete replied, dead serious. "There's a cult that wants to end music and they're based there and they're after us, Patrick!"
"Holy smokes," Patrick joked.
Andy laughed quietly.
Pete whirled around and pointed an accusing finger at Andy.
"This is not a laughing matter!" he yelled, Patrick grinning behind him.
Pete let out a roar of frustration. "Fine! Get yourselves killed, see if I care! You'll be eating your words in a matter of hours, I promise you!"
And with that, Pete stormed down the street towards Joe's house.
"Do you really think he was serious?" Andy asked worriedly.
"No," Patrick said firmly. "He's trying to scare us and now he's going to tell Joe all about it."
Andy bit his lip and watched Pete go.
"I don't know," he said. "I think he would've cracked by then."
"Let's just go," Patrick said. "It'll all blow over, joke or otherwise."