I woke up with the sharp smell of oil paint in my nose, and a plan to get Angelo to the art museum in my mind. It was a little sneaky. But what would you do? Anyway, it was mostly Van Gogh’s idea.

I knocked on Angelo’s door later that morning. He was still in bed, in the same position as the day before.

“Wake up,” I said. “I’m taking you someplace.”

“I can’t go anywhere. I have things to do.” Angelo’s eyes drifted to the locked trunk in the corner, and the balled-up papers on the floor.

“That’s too bad,” I said. “I wanted to take you to the Minneapolis Institute of Arts. I thought the sad, dark paintings might inspire your song for Rosaline.”

Angelo sat up on his elbows. “Are the paintings depressing?”

“Very. There are sad sculptures, too. And most of the art was made by people who are dead now. But, you said you don’t have time, so …” I started to pull the door closed. Angelo stopped it open with his foot.

“I could spare an hour,” he said.