Shlomo took a deep breath. Only once had he played his songs in public

The sky was like a perfect blue dome, with not a hint of last night’s fierce storm — like a child apologizing for bad behavior by acting extra sweet.

Shlomo Bass was standing in the backyard, behind the large swing set his parents had put in when he was 11 in the hope that it would draw other children to play with him. It hadn’t back then, but it was coming in handy now to give the boys cover as they fiddled with their e-cigarettes. Lorb had a good time trying to drink his coffee without spilling while bouncing on the trampoline.

Morning, glorious as it was, had disappointed Shlomo with its arrival. He hadn’t wanted the night to end, sensing that it would be hard, perhaps impossible, to capture the heady confidence he’d felt as he’d led the other boys into his recording studio, showing them the huge computer, the speakers, the mic with three pairs of headphones wrapped around it, the guitar and keyboard.

For a moment, he’d been worried that they would be impressed but not take it seriously, not believe him when he said it was in this room that he really lived, that it was not just his escape but the place where he was happiest. He thought they might look at it like the huge play structure with the double glider plastic swings that no one else in the neighborhood had — just more fancy toys, ways to spend money to keep little Shlomo busy.

That would have devastated him, if they’d believed that.

But they got it. Lorb had picked up the guitar and started to strum, the high part of “Abba, Abba,” and without looking at him, Shlomo had started tapping at the keyboard and Wagner had leaned back against the wood-paneled wall and closed his eyes and said, “Wow, I hear you now,” and Shlomo Bass had felt what his therapist would have called “seen.”