James Reynolds had been sitting in the airport for several hours. Normally, he would travel in his own plane, but, normally, the only time he traveled anywhere that has a prerequisite of arrival by plane was with the band. He had been in hospital for several months, a blood clot had exploded in his leg during a reconstructive knee surgery. He had woken up, knowing he had faced the abyss and had come back, apparently for four whole minutes. He had considered retirement, his will to live having disappeared. His girlfriend had brought a guitar for him to play, but he couldn't bring himself to touch it for several weeks. By the time his bandmates had convinced him to go back on tour, that woman was just someone he used to know. He had wanted to play a show at Red Square in Moscow, as he had loved it the first time he went, and a number of his fans were Russian. He had met with the president, but couldn't make him budge. Flash forward, this woman who had just sat by him speaking, and Reynolds remains silent, not wanting to speak.