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hate it. Every time a guard played a new release over the facility's public address, it was met with hisses and boo's, and 'got no soul' epithets. Marcus asked the boys to do a few bars of the vocals to try to see just what they were constructing. "Damn, that's complex. I guess that's a minor seventh flat five and flat nine slid into a what - suspended - fourth? With, let's see, a relative augmented layered on top, to a, gee what is this, a diminished seventh flat fifth? Oh man. I love this!" Marcus thought that musical structure of this sort would be beyond graduate level college music courses. No. This was advanced astrophysics of music. "Oh, screw it! Sing Nella." She sang Lover Man. The boys loved that one and did wonders behind it. Then she drew the clouds from the sky with I Concentrate On You, Mean To Me, and Marcus fell apart, almost in tears to Why Was I Born? "You were born to sing, Nella. The real question is - why was I born?" Marcus couldn't help wiping his eyes, feeling a bond with this child that was unexplainable, strong, and deep. Music does that. Sally was sitting, just smiling sweetly, on Gerry Penchant's lap as he cupped her breasts in his hands from behind in a romantic embrace, kissing behind her ear, lost in the sounds. "That's more like it," Benson observed. "That's the proper use of the equipment. Context matters." Mac agreed.