He nods along as the boy checks his not-phone, readies himself to hurry back off to wherever, and leave God with his papers and odd little bits of rock. He has new angles to consider, here. He has new creation myths to crack.

Then the kid gives his name, and John's eyebrows quirk up.

There is a hanging beat: he seems to consider the boy as though seeing him for the first time, blinking at the clothes, the guitar, the earnest set of his shoulders. Then he says, with a slow-dawning smile:

"You too. Thanks for the song. Consider me a fan."