They found Sheila in the back room a half an hour later, drowning some black, nameless sorrow in a jug of Steve's caustic brew. As usual in this state of mind, she was flailing away at her fiddle with assorted grimy tools in a feeble attempt to add a fifth string. "Goddamned Plymouth - got to have that low C." There was never anything to be done for her at times like these but make sure she didn't drill that fifth peg into her forehead and keep her from wandering off bridges in search of her beloved midnight-blue Mustang, long ago ransomed to an ex-lover for the fifth-stringless fiddle.
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