Panel 1: Denver frowns, one eyebrow raised. He asks, "Dude. Stef. What gives?"
Panel 2: Tomás, he drummer, stretches his arms above his head. He's still holding his drumsticks. His face is scrunched up as he complains, loudly, "Maaan, I was just getting in the zone, too…" The shirt he's wearing is revealed to be one for the ska band, The Mighty Mighty Bosstones.
Panel 3: Stef, the bassist, physically leans out of his panel, his arm reaching across Tomás's panel to point one accusatory finger right at Denver in panel 1. Stef says, "Sorry, Tomás. But that guy’s been playing like shit all day."
Panel 4: The view is of Denver and Stef arguing, as seen by Tomás from behind the safety of his drum set. Denver points at himself with one tattooed up hand and arm. In disbelief, Denver says, "Me? I sound like shit?"
Stef slouches slightly forward, his bass still slung over his shoulder. He's frowning as he answers, "Yeah. Your head’s obviously not in it right now."
Behind them both, the door to the rehearsal studio is covered in hastily taped signs. The center sign reads, "TOMÁS, LOCK THE FUCKING DOOR." It's surrounded by post-its and torn up bits of paper with arrows pointing towards the sign, which is right at the eye level on the door that a very forgetful drummer would have to look at it before he exits the room.
Panel 5: Frowning, Denver starts his rebuttal, "That's--"
Panel 6: Denver hesitates. He looks up at the ceiling, mouth scrunched to one side as he considers something.
Panel 7: Denver finally relinquishes the argument, the irritation completely evaporated from his face. Now he smiles sheepishly, leaning to one side so his blond hair flops over. He says, still sheepish, "Yeah, okay. That’s probably true. That’s probably true."
