Eventually, it started to rain. After thinking it over carefully, Oz elected not to seek shelter. He just kept playing. Sitting in the rain and singing about the one woman he'd always love. The one woman he could never see again. It just felt right. For the first time in a long time, he felt at peace. Somehow, though, that just made singing the blues easier.

*Have to sit down and think about that one of these days,* he told himself. For now, he was content to play.

Sometime later - minutes or hours, he wasn't sure - he heard a commotion off in the distance. Police sirens, a couple of blocks away but getting closer. He stopped singing but kept playing and waited to see what would happen.

Suddenly, a car came flying around the corner and into sight. At first, Oz thought it was the police car that he'd heard. It was black and white and had the typical police markings, but no light rack on top. The sirens were coming from the three police cars that careened around the corner in hot pursuit. Oz watched as all four cars sped by him and turned the next corner. He continued to listen to the sirens and the screech of tires even after they were out of sight, and winced in sympathy as he heard the screams of tortured metal when several of the cars met what was obviously an unfortunate end.

Shrugging, he turned his attention back to his guitar.

*Chicago. My kind of town.*

Seconds later, the non-cop car came roaring back around the corner from where he'd heard the crash. It hurtled up and stopped in front of him with a squeal of overburdened brakes.

A short, stocky man dressed in a black suit, hat and sunglasses leaned out the passenger window and regarded Oz. Oz stared back placidly and continued to play. After a few moments, more sirens began to sound in the distance. If the man in black heard them, he gave no sign. Looking past him, Oz saw that the driver was dressed identically.

"Hey, kid," the man said, "you play pretty good."

Oz just nodded. He knew that.

"What do you think of Wilson Pickett?"

Oz stared at him in contempt and didn't bother to answer. Anyone who didn't already know how good Wilson Pickett was didn't deserve to hear it from him.

The short, stocky man and the taller, leaner driver both nodded in satisfaction. "You'll do, kid. Hop in." The sirens were getting closer.

Oz considered for a few seconds, then got up and unhurriedly gathered his things and got into the back seat of the car. It immediately lurched into motion. Within seconds, they were moving faster than anything without wings had a right to go.

The short, stocky man turned around and offered Oz his hand. As he shook it, Oz saw that the man had written JAKE on his knuckles in black ink. When the driver twisted to offer his own hand, Oz read ELWO.

Jake smiled at him. "You're gonna fit in nicely, kid. I just know it. Wait'll you meet the band."

The driver said, "We're on a mission from God."

Oz smiled. He had a feeling things were looking up.