Marcus, whose faith in God is perhaps only matched by his faith in his own taste in music, just scoffs happily. “This is a great mixtape,” he says, not as if starting an argument, but as if providing a helpful fact. “And CDs have no feeling to ‘em. But if Southern soul ain’t your thing, there’s a whole 90s cassette. The one down by your feet. Mouse on the cover.” Hand-drawn whiskery little cartoon mouse on lined paper taped into the cassette case, the once-black ink faded to bled-out blue. It’s nibbling a Communion wafer.

Outside, telephone poles whip by quicker. The sun’s high in the sky and the ancient AC is doing its best. It’s producing a fair amount of cold air and a disturbing amount of whirring noise.

“Seriously, rank ‘em for me. Wanna see how much of a lost soul you are. Is this better or worse than the Indigo Girls for you?”