Sam ignored the guy in the fedora pacing in front of his parent’s instrument booth. If he was looking for an Indiana Jones convention, he was way off. Like by 400 years.

           Inside the auditorium people buzzed with excitement, plucking lutes and mandolins and blowing on recorders like they’d traveled back in time to a medieval Disneyland. The Handmade Instrument Festival was his parent’s other child. They’d been carving instruments no one ever heard of all year. At the moment, they were showing them off at some period concert.   

           The guy in the fedora was probably like the others. He’d ask Sam a bunch of questions and never open his wallet. Sam shoved his ear buds in. Most kids would play a game or text a friend on their phone. Not Sam. He listened to a Gaelic app, straining to hear the words for “It’s raining in Scotland” over bites of corn nuts.

           “Excuse me.” Fedora man leaned on the table.

           Sam pulled out his ear buds, waiting for a question about how a lute is carved or the dynamics of ancient music.

           “You’re Ian’s son.”

           Sam nearly choked on a barbecue-flavored corn nut. This guy knew Sam’s dad, which was weird enough. But he was too old to be Dad’s student. Not to mention he spoke with a Scottish accent. Dad’s voice had the same lilt, but it was eerie hearing it from someone else.

           “Aye, you look like him.” Fedora man fingered a lute and a couple other instruments Sam didn’t know.

           “You know my dad?”

          “Let’s say I’m an old pal.”