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Muscle Shoals, deep summer. Isaiah Ford owns a fifty seven year old recording studio, eleven thousand four hundred and twelve reels of tape, and a vault that stays at sixty two degrees. In nine days he sells the archive and the building finally starts paying for itself.

At two in the morning he finds a box on the return shelf with his own handwriting on the spine. He wrote that label eleven days ago and put all three boxes in the toolbox of his truck. The reel inside this one is not the reel he put in it.

A session nobody logged. A singer nobody credited. Then a silence with two men in it, saying a number and a name. The name is Ford. There have been two Fords in that building, and the other one has been dead for fifteen years.