It's not easy to just pick up a song without any prior practice, and he isn't intimately familiar with the tune Jay starts ticking out. The phantom declaration of jam session still rings in his ears - storming, sleeting rain and Brian's towel-tousled hair and the bare white walls of Tim's music room, complete with, and he can still hear it in Alex's dry monotone, box of thing.

Bit by bit, he starts to work his way into the melody. He hasn't got perfect pitch. He's out of practice. He's not capable of immediately exhibiting some raw and awe-inspiring talent.

But he can play along for a few bars, and then for a few more.

It doesn't sound too bad.