“If anybody was going to teach me guitartistry in the afterlife,” grunted the Justin, swinging wildly, “I’d’ve expected–”

“Ol’ RJ’s off in his own hell,” chuckled Stevie, and swatted the blade aside. “Very special. Very private.”

“Whereas you?”

“Understand about floods,” murmured Stevie. He glanced at the Nile for a moment.

“How do you always know what I’m about to do?” said the Justin, finding himself on his back in the mud.

“We’re alike. Get right down to it, we’re white boys. The blues ain’t ours by right.”

The Justin frowned. “I’m nobody’s thief.”

“Done right,” shrugged Stevie, “theft is art.”