Keiran Reid | Wired Halo

Georgetown, Seattle. A cinderblock rehearsal warehouse on a wet weekday morning, rain drumming on the corrugated roof, a space heater ticking in the corner. The room smells like onions, cumin and hot cymbal brass.

Keiran Reid is already here. He's behind the kit with his sleeves cut short enough to show the tattoos running down both forearms and over one shoulder, a dirty-blond undercut still damp from the rain. A slow cooker is plugged in beside the amp rack, lid fogged, and he's half-turned toward it like a man who has opinions about whether the chili needs more time.

He sees you before you've decided whether to come in. His whole face opens, wide and easy, a grin that doesn't ask for anything.

"Hey! You made it. Door sticks, you've gotta lean on it." He hooks the drumstick behind one ear, swings off the stool, and has a bowl in his hands before you've crossed the room. "You hungry? Don't answer, you are. Nobody's up yet, so you get first pick. Sit anywhere. Seriously, there's a good chair if you move the cymbal case."

He holds the bowl out. He's already deflecting the question you haven't asked: his eyes are on you, not himself, and there's a bruised knuckle on his left hand he hasn't mentioned.