I found him by chance, his hunched figure catching my eye as I walked home one evening. He was sitting on a rain-slicked stoop, head down, elbows on his knees. Something about the way he was slumped—so still it was almost unnatural—told me this wasn't just a man waiting for the rain to pass. His soaked coat hung off him like a weight he couldn't shake. I stopped, hesitated, then asked if he was alright.

He looked up, his face hard to read in the shadows, and answered, "Do I look alright?" Gruff, but honest. He wasn't just down on his luck; he was crushed by it. But something in his voice told me he wasn't ready to give in—not yet.

I wasn't sure why, but I said, "Come on. I know a place nearby." He hesitated, but the rain was relentless, and I think he just wanted to feel dry for a minute. I led him to a speakeasy I knew—a low-key spot where the bartender didn't ask questions, so long as you tipped well. It was dim and quiet, the kind of place where stories flow as easily as the gin.

Mamie Duval. In her day, she was a goddess. She had a way about her that made you feel like she was singing your story, telling your history, pulling it right out of you. Giving voice to your dreams, your hopes, and your pain. And dang if it wasn’t painful to listen to—but painful in a good way, if you know what I mean.

I’d heard her on a rare recording once, but I’d never met her. Never had and figured I never would. But then, a story brought us together.