There was one night in Amarillo when the lights went out mid-show. The band froze, the crowd murmured, and Toby just smiled. He picked up his old acoustic and said, “Guess it’s just us now.” He started strumming — no mic, no sound system, just his voice echoing off the walls. The song wasn’t on any record. It was something he’d written years ago for his mom, the one who used to pray backstage that her boy would make it home safe. When the power came back, the crowd stayed quiet — no one wanted to break the spell. Later that night, someone asked him what the song was called. He said softly, “It’s called Thank You, but she already knows that.”
It happened one summer night in Amarillo, under the glow of a restless sky. The crowd was packed shoulder to shoulder, the kind of audience that came not just to…