Each beat, each bam bam bam, leaves his hands tingling. Soon they will blister, maybe bleed, but each beat gets him further away and happier still.
His hands are already bloody. So too his face and shoes.
Catching up to the boy whose drumkit it was, grabbing his neck and throwing punch after punch and putting kicks in wanting to be sure he would get a long time on the kit by himself, as himself.
The boy whose kit it is walking further ahead, sprinting at times, unable not to, a mess of beats and cola and John Bonham, to this place out back of nowhere where a few old water barrels and tins and bits of wood make his kit.
It is a thing he is proud of and a thing he loves and a thing he is bragging about in school as every other kid listens jealously.