The suspicion grew sort of gradually, a nagging doubt at the back of her mind, like thinking you’d left the oven on. First just a vague sense of something out of place, and then bit by bit the specifics began to fill in; and then it was a growing, solider certainty.
“Are we — ” Zoe started, and then she stopped playing entirely, resting her bass against her chest and pulling off one cup of her headset. “…Are we playing in the wrong key?”
Andy looked at her for a second, frowning, his fingers starting to falter as his concentration broke. “No. What? No.”
“I think we are, though.”
“No.” But then he looked down at the fretboard, and his frown deepened. “Yes. …Fuck.”