Epilogue

Sylvia Mendes, of Silver Sound Studio, honestly didn't mind having a winter break from her rodent clients. Alvin could be a diva, Simon a killjoy; Theodore was sweet but easily distractible. And she wouldn't mind being away from their obnoxious squeaky voices.

Still, they paid well, and they brought publicity to the business. She was therefore a little relieved when she returned from her vacation and saw a letter addressed to her in Alvin's messy handwriting. They'll be crawling back soon, she thought. It was all well and good for the Chipmunks to dream about crafting a low-budget DIY album, but when they got that out of their system, her studio was where the real magic would happen. She opened the envelope and began to read.

Dear Sylvia, I hope you are well. Were no longer at the hotel. Simon and Theodore and me made some friends Danny Wendy and Mr Halloran and are currently in Maine with them. Things got real bad Were doing better now.

Weve been playing alot of music together. We wanted to send them to you and maybe you can give them to a radio station?

Thanks,

Alvin

ps we should have listened to you when you said dont go to the mountains

Attached was a CD and a list of track names. Sylvia's sense of unease only grew when she looked at the names of the songs they had written: "Bloodlust," "The Burned Ghost," "Shine On," "The Moon Landing Was Obviously Faked," "None of Our Songs Use Bass and Here's Why," and "Lupus Ex Machina." Maine? Bloodlust? What the hell is going on here?

Sylvia looked through the rest of her mail, hoping that another letter would clarify the situation, but no other envelope bore Alvin's handwriting. The only thing that seemed like it might be related was a postcard from the hotel where the Chipmunks had stayed...but it had no message and no return address.

Sylvia stared at the image on the postcard. It was an old, black-and-white photograph of a swing band playing in a ballroom...and was her imagination, or did the smiling man playing the upright bass bear an uncanny resemblance to Dave Seville?

As Sylvia stood there, goosebumps rising on her arms, she thought she could almost hear a song, sweet and slow, a song that sounded like an old jazz ballad with the vocals pitched up an octave.