Then Leo stepped up. He cued the first record from the ghost crate. The one with the thunder-snare.
Curiosity overriding common sense, he didn't have a portable deck, but he had his phone. He cupped the earpiece against the grooves, opened a spectral analyzer app he used for sound checks, and hit “record.” He dragged the needle of his fingernail lightly across the first track.
He slipped out the back and ran through the now-drizzling rain back to the corner. His crate—his real crate, the one with the scars and the smell of basement and the handwritten tracklist—was gone. In its place was a single, dry leaf and a puddle of oily water.