

THE BRANDYWINE PROPHET

Jake Vander Ark

Copyright 2012 by Jake Vander Ark

Smashwords Edition

For Dad

" _When we've been there ten thousand years_

Bright shining as the sun..."

www.jakevanderark.com

jake.vander.ark@gmail.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE The Third Jeté

ONE Two Years Earlier: William Carmel Hears the Voice

TWO The Evolution of the Brandywine Prophet

THREE Whitaker and Reid

FOUR Setting the Stage

FIVE Young Love

SIX Batten Clamps

SEVEN Marionette Strings

EIGHT The Rise of a Listening God

NINE Lilapricot'93

TEN Young Love (Reprise)

ELEVEN The Chorus Room

TWELVE The Silence and the Storm: A Parable

CODA

AFTERWARD The Music Box On the Hill

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

**PROLOGUE - The Third Jeté**

" _T'was grace that taught my heart to fear..."_

Monday: The Sparkle Motion National Championship

Even the lightning tried to stop Janie's dance. It webbed and pealed thick ivory streaks in a terrifying display of power, but her father could not be moved.

The Amphitheater sat on a plateau above the Brandywine subdivision. The town's inhabitants were gathered in a crescent around The Theater, roaring with the thunder, unaware that The Stage was binding them in the glow of its electric foot-candles.

A row of sequined girls shivered in the lee of the cinderblock wall. Their teeth chattered behind made-up cheeks as they whispered in unison after every bolt, _"One-watermelon, two-watermel—"_ then trembled when a thunderclap cut them short. The chorus room would have kept them warm, but they wouldn't _—_

— _they couldn't_ use the chorus room _._

Forty-two tents were erected along the perimeter fence to provide shelter from the impending rain. The torn white plastic ignored the spectators huddled below, flapping and whirling in a desperate plea for surrender. The only tent that didn't bend was reinforced with two rolls of duct tape and tethered to the ground with stakes and sandbags. It housed cameras, monitors, and reporters from the local news.

Any earthly production would have been cancelled at the slightest suggestion of rain, but this was William's Stage— _it was William's call_ —and if the children danced and the congregation remained transfixed, the show would go on.

Chase—Sparkle Motion's fifteen-year-old stage manager—zip-zagged again with his push broom, sweeping the glitter, feathers, and wetness from the wooden floor of The Stage.

The peppy voice of the announcer blared through the overhead speakers to introduce the next dance. "Next up we have competitive ballet, age fourteen. Please welcome Janie Carmel performing 'An Elegy for Miracles!'"

Janie's fingertips brushed the meshwork edge of her cream tutu. William released his fingers from her temples, kissed the twirl of brown hair secured tightly atop her head, and backed into the shadows of the right-wing as his daughter took her position on the dance floor.

A crack of thunder signaled another surge of applause as the girl assumed her stance, arms poised above her head and overexposed in the spotlight. For an instant her eyes met her father's. He mouthed _"Thank you,"_ but her stoicism refused a smile.

Her decision was final.

As William awaited the music, his cinnamon gum began to lock his jaw, already overworked from a month of grinding teeth. He didn't care; he chewed more furiously and reveled in his stiffening cheeks and the sound of every squished chomp. If his muscles cramped, he would gladly take the pain.

William didn't know it yet, but The Stage he built was about to take his daughter's life.

* * *

Tonight marked the first day of Sparkle Motion's National Dance Championship. Janie's ballet was one of three-thousand acts that would grace William's Stage in less than a week, and the event marked the third Sparkle Motion show in The Theater's two year history. Will remembered the humble roots of his enterprise; how it housed recitals for children, church services, local and national theater troupes, country and rock concerts, operas, and more.

That was before the madness... before it consumed.

Squinting past the lights and rain and into the darkened sway of the audience, William knew his wife was watching. Brian "Sherlock" Cavenaugh and two other policemen were also peppered in the mass; their usual navy garb replaced by inconspicuous jackets and jeans. William wasn't worried about Sherlock and his minions; everything was proceeding as planned.

He turned his attention to Janie and marveled at her honest expressions—nothing false—as if the beginning movements of the ballet were _truly affecting her_. The music fell in sync with her movement. She commanded the song as she commanded her body.

It was William's song that moved her; his own pianistic creation written and performed by all seven of his fingers on a tuneless piano. _Tombé, pas de bourrée, glissade, pas du chat;_ he mouthed the terms as his daughter executed every move with matchless grace.

William's gum chewing slowed. He spit the wad behind the fiberglass set piece as he crossed from stage-right to stage-left where Janie was about to exit. He ran his deformed finger and thumb through wet, grey hair, then relinquished his stress to the sad tune. _An arabesque. A grand battement._ The movements were crystal in his mind's eye. He recalled his daughter practicing days earlier in the living room, just the two of them. Then years earlier, a different dance but the same Janie, the same living room, twirls and giggles and good times accompanied by great music; _just the three of them._

He emerged into the left-wing. He tapped the choreography's timing with his toe. He eyed the young stage manager across the floor, standing motionless for the first time today with his chin on his broom and his eyes entranced on Janie.

The tempo increased but Janie didn't miss a beat. William stepped forward. Chase stepped forward. The audience buzzed like TV static behind the rain. _Even the thunder broke to give the child her moment._ Another flawless arabesque followed by a fouetté.

The three jetés were next. Starting on stage-right, she would leap toward her father and land—off-stage—into his arms.

The first jeté began with a chassé followed immediately by the leap; arms stretched and legs split nearly three feet above the floor. Her back leg kicked and William sensed the judge's approval. The second jeté; flawless again and he wished the corner of her lip would raise so he could see her satisfaction. Another kick of the back leg; _another consummate landing._

The third jeté was the highest. Janie leapt, twisted her head away from William to the judges in the front row, and her form froze midair as she unknowingly said goodbye to the world. Her legs spread again, four feet off the ground and directly above the hatch William conceived and installed—unfinished—containing his daughter's landing in its dead center. The hatch gave way under the precisely applied pressure of her slippered toe, broke open, and the ballerina fell.

Janie didn't scream, but plunged into silence, then a thud and slap on the concrete eleven-feet below. A cry from the crowd—probably Sarah's—but William remained motionless, his body not yet understanding what his mind did.

Chase reacted first, darting from stage-right as William snapped to life and bolted—not fast enough—from stage-left. His cheeks burned. He ignored the murmurs of the horde.

"Someone call an ambulance!"

The police forgot the real reason they were attending the evening's spectacle and rushed toward The Stage.

The cameras arrived first, led by Robin-the-reporter pushing blond hair from her face while masking excitement with concern.

"Janie!" William yelled, jerking his head back and forth as if it would clear the blackness from the pit. "Janie!"

That boy— _that stage manager he barely knew_ —slipped into the cutout square, clutched the ledge, and dangled his feet into the snapping jaws of the dark. His eyes flicked to William and narrowed. _"Five six seven eight,"_ Chase said, then released his grip and fell.

"Janie! _Janie!_ " The boy's screams echoed in the dark, muffled by the clamor of the crowd and the final cold chord of William's lullaby. "Janie!" he cried again.

As Will peered through that terrible hole, his stomach released a hatch of its own and dropped his heart like a hangman.

With Chase's words ringing from the abyss and confirming the end of Janie's life, William looked up... through his tears... past the catwalk and lights... past the sky... through the dark and clouds and stars and into the void where he once knew God existed, then turned himself outside-in, alone, and asked, _"Why?"_

* * *

Tragedy triumphed where the storm had failed; the remaining days of the Sparkle Motion Championship were cancelled.

The hatch was inspected. Neglect was to blame. The brackets and bolts—meant to last six months—had become crumbles of amber rust after two winters of swelling and contracting. How many plays? How many dances? How many toes tickled that lid in a colorful production of Russian Roulette?

The body was removed, the cement slab hosed. By eight AM Tuesday morning, a plastic cross had been anonymously purchased and placed in front of the orange cones standing guard at the open hole. Someone—William would never know who—turned the spotlight onto the lonely monument. Another rainstorm popped the breakers two weeks later, leaving the stage in darkness for the short remainder of its life.

Chase, the young Sparkle Motion employee who was first down the rabbit hole, was deemed a hero by the tragedy's spectators. But he refused the title. After Janie was laid to rest at the Grand Rapids Memorial Cemetery, he flew back to Tennessee and quit the job he loved.

Mrs. Danthers was the only neighbor who had the courage and persistence to visit William's house (for it was no longer a home) at the base of the hill. She clutched a foil-covered Pyrex, walked up the porch steps, and hopscotched fresh bouquets with their swelling buds, rainbow petals and foil balloons. The vases beside the front door stank of wet leaves and ash. A quick peek inside; she saw the carpet, unfurled except for the path from the couch to the kitchen to the stairs.

When ringing the doorbell proved fruitless (as it always did) Mrs. Danthers replaced yesterday's untouched pan with today's piping-hot casserole, then picked cigarette butts from the lifeless floral arrangement closest to the door. As she made her way back through the dying gaud, she examined the cardboard slips attached to every bouquet to see if they were addressed to _"William Carmel"_ or _"William and Sarah Carmel."_

Will only saw his wife once after the funeral. Her deep brown eyes had faded, the outside corners had turned down in a perpetual expression of indifference. She blamed him.

The days and nights and weeks and seconds ticked like a broken metronome with William stoned and hungover in bed, sobbing for sleep and abandoning his mind. When he did think—when his brain began the slow chugging of rusty gears—the only thoughts that came were unspeakable things like, _what's the worst age a child can die?_ Worse yet was—after hours spent staring at the ceiling until it became a real-life Escher print with fans on the floor, useless windowsills, and dresser drawers that spilled underwear when opened—worse yet was when his mind found answers to those questions. _Two-years-old isn't so bad,_ he mused. _They barely had a life. Twenty? At least they got to experience life!_

But fourteen... _fourteen was the worst._

Basic human functions returned in the following weeks. William found himself stumbling down hallways (past her sealed bedroom door) to the bathroom or kitchen with the voice of Sarah, Kayla, and Baylee ringing like a three-headed beast in his head, _"It's all your fault, it's all your fault, it's all your fault."_

It _was_ his fault _._ It was his fault for underestimating coincidence; for believing in supreme benevolence over divine apathy.

But the bare-bones truth was that the escalating madness of the last six months had been released that night like the blubbering mouth of an untied balloon. William's problems—once piled high and precarious like Janie's Jenga set—became meaningless upon her death.

He sold his property, house and hill to Silverman & Binder, the developer who wanted it from the beginning. Jaxon Silverman (that beady-eyed prick) paid no attention to the incident that sparked William's sale, and ignored the man's pain as he slipped him a torn piece of paper with his best offer as if they were negotiating used cars.

Silverman & Binder wasted no time demolishing the stage, spending a week with yellow behemoths crunching and hauling the remains of William's dream. The chorus room—locked in brick and mortar—imploded with the rest. The machines paid no attention to the fossils in the rubble.

For a day, the stage became a heap from 1945 Berlin. William said goodbye among splintered wood and snakes of rope jutting and twining together in a sanctimonious alter.

A year later, the hill would contain Brandywine's new expansion: golden homes, swimming pools and white picket fences creeping through William's inherited and discarded property. But he wouldn't be around to see it, nor would he ever visit that hill again.

**ONE - Two Years Earlier: William Carmel Hears the Voice**

Hyde Whitaker grazed a hand over his stiff blond hair in the lobby of Big Blue's Piano Bar and asked himself again why the heck he was here.

He was here because women talk; they talk and they gather and they plan new ways to torture their husbands. "William's a good guy," Kayla explained that morning. "He just doesn't have many friends."

"He's old enough to be my dad," Hyde replied.

"It would mean a lot to me."

"You talked to his wife?"

"He used to be a writer or something..."

"That's supposed to make me like him?"

Kayla made her pouty face. "Please, Hydey-Wydey?"

The banter continued until she stormed to her puzzle of Van Gogh's sunflowers and refused to acknowledge him for the next thirty minutes. Finally, she muttered, "I just want our new neighbors to like us..."

And Hyde agreed.

It was hard to believe that socializing could ever be a problem for Hyde "Most-Likely-To-Succeed" Whitaker. Since the loss of his mother to lung cancer and the uphill battle for business success, he had become quite proficient at meeting new people and sustaining lasting friendships. He was elected class treasurer his senior year of high school. The position not only taught him how to converse with peers and authority figures, but elevated him to a new level of popularity. The bulk of his friend base moved with him to Grand Valley State where he pioneered "Colleges Against Cancer," an advocacy branch of the ACS. Business school and subsequent business ownership pushed Hyde into trade shows where he negotiated deals on electronics, presented them to investors, and sold them to customers. Before he and Kayla moved to the Brandywine subdivision a week ago, he led a monthly men's church group in the living room of their one-bedroom apartment.

Yet here he stood, double-checking the fold of his yellow collar and pressing his sideburns flat against his temples. He rotated the clip of his gold chain to the back of his neck, removed the bluetooth from his ear, and triple-checked the gosh-darned collar.

A group of college girls sat at the center table, fifteen feet from the man Hyde was forced to befriend. He passed the women with a brief glance, then took a seat at the bar.

* * *

The first verse of William's all-time least-favorite song didn't deserve the red foot pedal hovering below the piano. It was a novelty song about a pussy cat; a double entendre that sees the kitten sore, wet and bald by the final verse. He would wait until the patrons of Big Blue's Piano Bar became fully immersed in the stupidity of his all-time least-favorite song, then he would give in, push the damn pedal, and let the tips flow like a lucky slot machine into his jar.

A tacky bout of fog hissed from the nozzle above his head. The device was Big Blue's response to the Michigan law banning smoking in bars. Will hadn't even bummed a cig in twenty-four years, he missed the taste of real tavern atmosphere.

The customer chemistry was ideal tonight. A group of businessmen were in the far corner, bathed in the cobalt light, ties loose, cuffs open, singing along to the classic rock. A table of coeds enjoyed their spring break by making cat calls at Will, jotting numbers for the more attractive waiters, and belting along to the country songs. Folks sat in benches along the mirrored walls and on stools around the piano. Jesse and Milly filled orders from the bar; the clink of their mugs and rush of the draft added a syncopated beat to William's silly song.

His fingers tapped the spunky tune and his smile told the crowd he loved his job. He wore a tweed fedora over bark-brown hair; at fifty-five, the grey was only evident in his stubble.

Stanley Bright was hunched at the bar. The man didn't wear "mid-fifties" as confidently as Will, especially with construction drab over his left shoulder and crusted dust on his brow. Back in the ol' days, Stan had potential. Now he was duller than the back of a butter knife and found his refuge in scotch.

Will enjoyed the physical act of "tickling the ivories," but loathed his job at the bar. He was a writer and a director and a choreographer! If he wasn't creating something, why not drill holes in a factory? He had passion like a tuning fork in his chest, reverberating through his organs, telling him to create something, anything, _everything_ in the name of art. He longed to burn the Big Blue's songbook, to banish his all-time least-favorite song, to engage his audience in music of his own creation. Eyes closed and neck slack, his fingers would not be his _but God's_. He would relish the piano's sound and thank the Lord for bestowing him with _such deep passion._

This job disemboweled originality. Anyone could see the misery in Will's eyes if they only bothered to glance up from their mugs.

But without missing a beat, he pressed his foot against the big red pedal and—to great applause and hollering—the piano began to spin as the artificial atmosphere twirled around his hat.

Will raised his voice. He bobbed his head. And as he zipped his fingers down the plastic keys, he longed to be home.

* * *

It took a solid minute for Hyde to realize that William's song wasn't about a cat, but then he got the joke in the last verse and laughed with the rest. From the little he knew of music, his new neighbor was insanely talented.

The song was over and the twisting piano came to a stop. "That's all for tonight, my friends," William said. "Duane'll be out in a few."

The man stood a head and neck taller than Hyde. His full breadth was exemplified in wide, boney shoulders. He removed a blazer from a hook behind the piano and tapped the bulging right pocket. As he turned to leave, Hyde jumped from his stool and intercepted him on the way to the exit.

"William? William Carmel?"

The man was already stuffing his arms into his jacket. He looked at Hyde and narrowed his brow. "I'm not in the mood to sign autographs."

_Autographs? Was he serious?_ "I heard you play. I think you're amazing. Can I buy you a beer?"

"Afraid I don't drink."

Hyde laughed nervously. "Neither do I. How does Coke sound?"

The man's eyes were grey without a tinge of color. "Sarah sent you," he said.

"I'm sorry?"

"My wife. She's trying to hook me up."

Hyde grinned and looked at the floor. "Somethin' like that."

"And may I ask the name of Sarah's new stooge?"

"My name's Hyde. Whitaker."

"I'll tell you what, Hyde Whitaker; I'll accept your Coke. We'll chat. And if we don't like each other in ten minutes, you can tell your wife we had an interesting time and she'll tell _my_ wife we had an interesting time and we never have to see each other again."

The tension was gone. If William was opposed to this as much as he was, they might just get along. "Deal," he said.

They stepped to the bar and sat down. "William Carmel..." Hyde said. "Like the candy?"

"Like the mountain."

"Awesome."

"And my wife calls me William." Will signaled the female bartender. "Two Cokes, Milly?" he said, then looked to Hyde. "How does a boy make it through your generation without drinking?"

"I'm twenty-six."

"It's a moral thing?"

"I watched alcohol destroy my friends in college. I have too much to accomplish to let that happen to me."

"I respect that."

"My wife doesn't like it much, either."

Will nodded. "And what do you do for a living, Mr. Whitaker?"

"I run my own business; Whitaker Electronics."

"So you're a salesman."

"Technically, but—"

"My brother-in-law's a salesman. Owns an alpaca farm in Virginia. Waste of skin." William wasn't the first to insult Hyde's profession.

"I guess I prefer speakers and blu-ray players over farm animals."

"Where's your store?"

"Three blocks down Boulevard." He nodded south. "It's nice working just over the hill."

"You live in Brandywine?"

"Right across the street."

"So _you're_ to blame."

"For?"

"The last house in 'phase fourteen.' Hyde and... Kylie?"

"Kayla."

"Kayla. How do you and Kayla like the Brandywine experience?" Will folded his arms, crossed his legs, and leaned back on his stool.

"It's friendly. And comfortable. We like the stability of the subdivision."

"Perceived stability."

"I'm sorry?"

"What does Kylie do?"

"Kayla."

"What does Kayla—"

"She teaches dance. Well..." Hyde paused. "She's about to."

"Oh?"

"We just began renovating a new studio; part of the reason for the move."

"Did our wives discuss the dance thing?"

"If there were any conversations about dance, they left me out."

Milly set two fizzing glasses in front of the men.

"How did our wives meet and plan this little get-together?" Will asked.

"Your wife—"

"Sarah."

"—brought a Dutch-chocolate cake to welcome us to the neighborhood."

"I guess I missed that."

"They had lunch together. Mine made yours a salad with strawberries. Best she's ever had."

Will's eyes froze. "Missed that too..." he said, but his mind was detached from the words. The man's brow curled over his eyelids and Hyde noticed a slight shift in disposition as if his body and brain were pushing out the sights, sounds, and smells of the bar to focus on a single thought. His hand jerked from the counter to his lapel. He patted his shirt and blazer, then said, "Give me a pen."

Hyde didn't have a pen but searched his pockets anyway. When he came up empty, he turned to Milly. "Excuse me, Ma'am," he said, but the bartender was already a step ahead. In one fluid motion, she zipped a pen across the bar, right passed Hyde and into Will's hand. He clicked it once and scribbled on his palm.

When he finished, he tossed the pen back to Milly, winked, and turned to Hyde. "Where were we?"

"Can I ask what you wrote?"

"Sure."

"...What did you write?"

"'Salad and strawberries.' I like the phrase."

"For a book?" Hyde remembered Kayla explaining Will's knowledge in the arts; writing, directing, drawing...

"Maybe." He blew on his hand to dry the ink.

"I don't understand your wife's concern," Hyde said. "You don't seem like a hermit."

"Is that what she called me?"

"She used the word 'introvert.'"

"Ha!" A new voice chimed in and Hyde swiveled in his seat. The man was Will's age with peppery stubble and a neon orange vest. He gripped his drink with a chiseled fist. The corner of his lip sagged where a cigarette longed to rest. "Don't let Billy Carmel fool ya. His extroverted side is playin' possum."

"Thirty years of diggin' holes has made you crabby, Stan," Will said. "And if you call me that again, I'll wring your neck like a canary."

"Why can't he call you Billy?" Hyde asked.

"Stan knows better," Will said. "He's just had one too many drinks."

"'One too many?'" Stan grinned. "That's a new phrase for ol' Billy Carmel!"

Hyde could only grin like a chimp as the men played monkey-in-the-middle with inside jokes.

Will turned to Hyde but kept his eyes on Stanley. "Stan was my partner-in-crime when he moved to Brandywine. Now he builds houses for the enemy."

Stan signaled the waitress, gathered his vest, and stood.

"Leaving already?" Will asked.

Stan ignored the comment and looked at Hyde. "If you take a left at the gate, I'm the third house down. If this guy gives you a hard time, give me a holler. Oh, and welcome to Brandywine."

Hyde shook Stan's hand; meaty, papery, and twice the size of his own. He felt like a child in the company of grizzlies. "You too, man."

Will sucked the last of his pop, let the glass thud and ring on the wooden bar, then raised a hand to Milly. "His drink goes on my tab."

* * *

"Do you like what you do, Hyde?"

"For work?"

"When you were five years old, did you draw pictures of small business owners selling electronics?"

"I drew pictures of firemen."

"Are you disappointed that you didn't become a fireman?"

"I had a limited imagination when I was five."

Will slouched in his stool. His blazer bunched around his neck. "This electronics business... you really feel like it's your calling?"

"I guess. Yeah. Definitely."

"When you punch out at the same time every night, you never feel like there might be something more? Like electronics isn't your thing?"

"I don't think so..."

"I have a passion for music. But as much as I love the piano, I can't stand this job."

"Maybe my passion for electronics is greater than your passion for music." Hyde meant it as a joke, but Will didn't seem to find it amusing.

"Passion isn't ironing your shirt so people will feel a false sense of trust and spend more cash on technology that'll be obsolete in a year. Passion is dirty. It's knowing something inside-out and loving it with every molecule of your being; something you need to do or you'll burst. Is that what selling electronics does for you?"

Hyde wanted to tell Will that he spent his childhood dissecting broken calculators and stereos and VCRs; that he spent four years watching his friends revel in "the college experience" while he studied his butt off and stayed faithful to his girlfriend; that the money he earned as a sleazy salesman made him a business owner, a homeowner, a pet-owner, and a loving husband at only twenty-six years old. But all he could say was, "Yes."

"Well then," Will said, "good for you."

* * *

By road, it was 2.3 miles from Big Blue's Piano Bar to the front steps of Will's home. As the crow flies, only a patch of woods and the hill separated the sprawling businesses of Boulevard Street from the Brandywine subdivision. Hyde offered Will a ride home, but the air was clear, the stars were visible, and though a spring breeze tugged his coat, he was comfortable.

The rear exit of Big Blue's smelled like urine and bananas. The dumpster was emptied yesterday, but still held the pervasive smears and puddles of unidentifiable liquid. Will stepped around broken bottle necks that had missed the trash, and twisted his rubber soles into the glass to create a satisfying grating sound against the concrete.

The forest edge stood thirty feet from the dumpster, and a service road doubled as no-man's land between the piano bar and the woodland creatures. As Will crossed the street, blacktop melded with dirt and the floodlight gave way to light from the moon.

He was able to move quickly. The harsh winter had rerouted last year's path, but his feet and hands familiarized themselves with the new trail as he pulled himself along the smooth saplings. The orange glow from the suburb lights kept him in the right direction until the thicket gave way to open air at the base of his hill.

The evening already laid a veneer of dew on the grass so Will had to dig his shoes in the sod to secure his footing.

The hill was a geographical anomaly in this part of the state. Michigan was known for its rolling landscape, but Brandywine, Boulevard and the surrounding land was as flat as Illinois... except for his hill. Though few residents knew or cared, the bulge belonged to the Carmels. Will estimated the plateau could hold more than five football fields.

He reached the peak, put his hands on his knees, and watched the suburb sleep. The hill was not only his domain, it was his legacy. From here, William controlled the world.

It was twenty-seven years ago that he sold the bulk of his property to Silverman & Binder and houses began popping up—ten at a time—in the shape of ice cube trays. Last September saw the construction of homes within talking distance of his, and after fifty-five years in the same house, Will finally had neighbors: Hyde, the salesman and Kayla, the dance teacher.

The Carmel residence sat at the base of the hill askew to the neatly formed houses that were preparing to engulf it. It was the home where William grew up, the home his father built, the home he returned to when his life spiraled out of control.

Inside, his wife and daughter were asleep, awaiting the excitement of Easter morning.

Will stuck his hand in his pocket and rustled the change inside.

With a little fancy footwork, he found himself at the bottom. He ambled to his house, snuck through the backdoor, then removed his grass-stained shoes and kicked them to the checkered linoleum. He pulled a string to turn on the overhead bulb, then left it on just long enough to assure the path to the living room was clear of childhood debris. Sarah always left the TV on for comfort during his late nights, but the flickering blue glow and muffled sound of women selling painted-glass pigs made the room feel more dead than alive.

Will remembered the note on his hand— _salad and strawberries—_ then marched to the living room, stooped to the oak cabinet beneath the TV, and retrieved a notebook from the top of the stack. He flipped to the first blank page and transferred the poetic snippet from his hand to the paper.

He stood, he arched his back to pop his sternum, then he shuffled to his recliner.

Giant bags of penny candy covered the coffee table and boxes of plastic eggs sat beside his chair. Sarah offered to fill them while he worked, but the Easter hunt was _his_ tradition.

Will opened every egg (crusted with muddy fingerprints from last year's festivities), removed a quarter from his jacket pocket, placed it alongside a Tootsie Roll, butterscotch drop, or Bazooka Joe Bubble Gum, then sealed each prize with a snap.

* * *

"Kay?"

"Mmm..."

"Kayla? Honey?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you awake, honey bear?"

"Mm hmm."

"I need to ask you something."

"What is it, Hydey?"

"...Do you think I'm passionate about my job?"

"Hmm?"

"When you see me working, do I seem passionate?"

"Mmm. Sooo passionate..."

"Do I seem like I know what I'm talking about? Do I seem excited about electronics?"

"How'd it go with the neighbor?"

"I'll tell you in the morning. Go to sleep, baby."

"But I wanna know."

"The man is a fascinating jerk..."

"Yeah?"

"But I think I can learn a lot from him."

* * *

"Dad. Dad. Dad. Get up. Get up. Get up."

Sunlight pressed against Will's eyelids making them impossible to open.

"Dad. Up. Now."

It was less than a year ago that Janie would have jumped up and down on the couch to wake him, but now she was twelve and gone were the days of "Daddy."

"I'm up," he mumbled.

"Why are you on the couch?"

He grunted.

"Trouble with Mom?"

He grunted again.

"She says you need to get up. Do you want the purple tie or the green?"

"Green," is what he tried to say, but it came out as "een."

Janie leaned sideways just enough to block the light from his face. He stretched one eye open. His daughter—dressed in a lovely white dress with an emerald sash—stood above him with her face an inch from his. She smiled and poked his nose. "Get. Up. Mister."

Will opened his other eye and noticed the scar that zigzagged from the corner of Janie's left eye to her chin. The blemish had been a part of his daughter for so long that he rarely noticed it anymore, but something was different today.

"Why all the makeup?" he asked.

"What makeup?"

He grabbed her shoulder for leverage, sat up, and studied her cheek. Face cream—not quite the tone of her skin—filled the divots of the pink cut, and too much blush attempted to mask the awkward patch. Will squeezed her shoulders and said, "Nothing. You look fine."

"Mom got up early to hide the eggs."

He looked to his chair. Sure enough, the boxes were empty. "Did she hide 'em?"

"Said she hid 'em good."

"Hid them _well_ ," he corrected.

"Yes, Dad, she hid them _well_. She saved the gold eggs for you. Says you have special hiding spots."

Will rubbed his eyes. "Do you think you're too old to hunt for eggs this year?"

"Daddyyyyyy!"

_Now_ _she uses "Daddy."_ "If you're still a little girl, I can do it myself."

"Do what? Do whaaaaat?"

"Hide the golden eggs."

Janie pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. "If I help you hide the gold eggs, I can't look for them with the other kids?"

"That wouldn't be fair, would it?"

"No." Janie looked away from her father... to the left out of habit. "Can I pick the hiding spots?" she asked.

"Sure can."

She nodded. "Then it's a deal."

* * *

Will spent the morning dodging his wife's questions about the ambush at the bar, but finally opened up on the way to church.

"Didja at least have fun?" she asked.

"He's young enough to be my kid."

"His wife teaches dance."

"Miss Alice is better."

"You don't know that!"

"Give ya the odds..."

"They might be at church today, so be nice."

"You invited them?"

"Of course I did, darling."

Will's grunt put the conversation on hold for the remainder of the ride.

The Carmel family had been members of the non-denominational Church of the Dunes for twenty-three years of its twenty-five-year history. Once a month, Sarah donned a burgundy gown and sang with the choir. Whenever Pastor VanDuyn could guilt him into it, William played the organ.

He dropped Sarah at the front door for choir practice and Janie at the back door for Sunday-school, then pulled his truck to his usual spot, cranked back his seat, and tried to relax.

Sarah wanted him to be social?

He could be social.

She wanted him to be nice?

He could be that too.

Will's idea of "nice" was smoking a cigar with "the guys." He wasn't one for cracking a beer and talking shop, but he did have a box of Diamond Crowns saved for special occasions. There were only a few places in the States to find the Dominican smokes, so when he stumbled on a whole box in a Traverse City tobacco shop, he didn't hesitate at the thirteen-dollars-per-stick price tag. Cigars were technically a substance, but they were the only vice that survived his transformation. Sarah didn't mind as long as he kept them in the stables and tossed any defiled clothes directly in the wash.

He already counted them this morning. Ten smokes. Nobody would be left out.

* * *

Easter afternoon seemed torn from a coloring book with scribbled trees, baby-blue skies, and a big orange sun with wavy yellow lines bursting from its core. Girls with pale skin and pastel dresses skipped along the front of Will's hill. Boys played at the end of Brandywine where the blacktop faded to gravel and weeds. A chalk maze wound through the unfinished cul-de-sac, complete with jump rope booby-traps and hula-hoop land-mines (though middle-schoolers on bikes posed a more realistic threat). Parents watched from the curb like helicopters.

On top of the hill, three white buckets were filled with Mrs. Danthers' special bubble mix: seven parts water, two parts dish soap, one part glycerin. Pipe cleaners were fashioned into all shapes and sizes and tiny hands popped what little lips blew. The older kids mastered monster bubbles with circles of rope tied to sticks.

The hunt was a success. The woods and hill served as fair hunting ground while the fenced-in corral was sectioned off for toddlers. Every time a golden egg was discovered, Janie and Will shared a knowing glance. At the end of the day, the special eggs could be exchanged for a giant Easter basket with chocolate bunnies, jars of strawberry preserves, and Applebees gift cards.

When most of the eggs had been discovered (Will was bound to run over a few stragglers with the lawnmower later that summer) the Easter Bunny came hopping out of the woods with a bag of fun-sized candy bars. Although the rabbit was an established attraction and a hit with the kids, he was nearly banned last year after Morgan Demfield's daughter screamed and kicked her way out of his arms. The helicopters converged and deemed the costumed stranger an inappropriate addition to the Carmel Easter Picnic. Will defended Sean Umbers—the man behind the mask—explaining that he was a retired high-school teacher of twenty years and a sponsor of six children through WorldVision. But the concerned mothers still demanded a meet-and-greet with the rabbit—sans furry costume—before this year's event. Two empty boxes of wine later, the women were fully satisfied with the divorced Mr. Umbers signing autographs for their five-year-olds. By the end of the hunt, Sean would discover four candy wrappers with scrawled numbers pushed seductively in the crack between the bunny's suit and head.

The broken heart necklaces that Jenny Johnson and Sloan Elfman refused to remove identified them as BFFs. Their lemonade stand sat at the foot of the hill between the corral and the Carmel's back door. For two bucks, customers received a cup of shaved ice with freshly squeezed lemon juice poured on top. Will supported the young entrepreneurs by adding a fifty-cent tip, then he carried the slush up the hill.

He was breathing hard by the time he reached Sarah. She was gracing a picnic blanket among friends like the Venus de Milo with arms. She didn't notice him, so he lowered the moist cup to her back and pressed the plastic against her freckled skin. She screamed and slapped his ankles, then accepted the drink, tilted her head, and accepted his kiss. (Kissing Sarah was more than a gesture of love, whenever Will pressed his lips against hers, he made himself remember how blessed he was. Eyes closed, he smelled the sweet summer aroma of watermelon body spray and recalled making love on the hill after a picnic she assembled as a birthday gift. She wore a black tank-top that day. They laughed at the grass stains on her shoulders.) He drew away from the kiss and Sarah mouthed _I love you,_ but her circle of friends remained oblivious to their chemistry.

As Will turned from his wife, he saw them approach. He identified Kayla as a dancer by her defined calves, trim waist, and superbly toned ass. Red, natural curls stretched against her scalp and bounced freely behind her ears.

Hyde was an inch shorter than his wife. He gripped a cup of lemonade and a leash in one hand, and his wife's hand in the other. A little Bichon lurched forward, jerking its leash and sloshing lemonade across Hyde's shoes.

Will tapped Sarah on the shoulder and she stood.

"Welcome, welcome!" she said, leaping forward and grabbing Kayla with both arms.

Will shook Hyde's hand and felt a sudden tinge of guilt for his "passion" rant the night before. "How was the trek up the hill?" he asked.

"Didn't break a sweat." Hyde looked to his wife. "Baby, this is Will Carmel."

Kayla flashed a wry smile as if she knew an inside joke that she couldn't say. "Good to finally meet you, Mr. Carmel! Hydey had such wonderful things to say about you!"

Will took her hand and nodded. "Good too meet you too, Mrs. Whitaker."

The next series of interactions took place in under a second, but Will deftly followed the minutia of the couple's expressions. The moment the name "Whitaker" escaped his lips, Hyde squinted, freed his hand from Kayla's, and raised it to visor his eyes from the four o'clock sun. He looked away, but then—as if he realized he made a mistake by breaking contact with Will—flicked his eyes to Kayla and back. The woman never took her focus off William, but readjusted her stance in a misguided attempt at confidence.

"It's Kayla _Reid_ ," she corrected. "I kept my last name when we married."

"Ah," Will said. "Not 'Whitaker-Reid,' or 'Reid-Whitaker?'"

"Just Reid," Hyde said.

Kayla didn't allow time for awkward silence. She pulled her hand from behind her back and revealed a pink gift bag with light-green tissue exploding from the top.

"For us?" Sarah asked.

"Because it's Easter," Kayla said. "And for inviting us to your fabulous church and glorious picnic!"

"It's heavy!" Sarah dipped her hand into the bag and pulled out a rock. She turned it over and showed Will the engraved inscription. "'A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words.' Aww!"

Will interjected, "I prefer, 'Build a man a fire and keep him warm for an hour. Set a man on fire, and he'll be warm for the rest of his life.'"

Sarah elbowed him in the side. "He's joking."

"I was. The stone is lovely."

"It's Kay's birthday on May first," Hyde said. "Her parents bought her a rock engraver as an early present."

"How neat," Sarah said.

"I love arts and crafts," Kayla interjected. "I think they go hand-in-hand with dance. And it makes me so incredibly happy to give personalized gifts! They always mean more than flowers or something from a wish-list, don't you think?" She crinkled her nose.

"You don't have to put it in your yard or anything," Hyde said.

"Of course we will!" Sarah playfully slapped him in the ribs.

"Also, we're having a little party next week if you'd like to stop by."

Sarah turned to Kayla. "Thank you for the present. It was a great use of your new rock engraver. And yes, we would love to come to your party."

* * *

Months from now, Will would look back at this group of men and call it a divine joke. There was Marvin Gibson, the architect from NYU who—until today—Will only saw in passing; Brian "Sherlock" Cavenaugh, a county trooper and the only man here with whom Will had ever carried on a conversation; and Hyde, trailing in back and slurping the bottom of his melted lemonade. There were others—Matt Johnson, William "The Other Will" Rogers, Darrel Pelton, et cetera—but these men would fade from Will's memory in the coming years.

The group stood outside the studio portion of the stables. Will removed a super-cluster of keys from his pocket, found the smallest of the bunch, slid it into the lock on the front door, then motioned for the men to filter in.

"...then the man stands up, removes his shirt, and says, 'Here! Iron this!'" Darrel accentuated the punchline of his joke with a giant grin. The guys laughed.

Will missed the first part of the joke but chuckled anyway. When the laughter died down, he spread his arms. "This," he said as daylight flooded his workspace, "is where miracles happen."

Brian whistled. "I need my own shed. Dang HOA won't allow it."

"This is the front half where I do most of my work. The stables are behind that wall—an old bomb shelter too—but we mainly use it for storage."

"No floor?" Hyde asked.

"I like the dirt," Will replied. "This old box has been standin' for a half-century." He raked a set of ratchets from the workbench into his palm and dropped them in a drawer. "Forgive the mess. There's an order to the chaos."

In the center of the dirt—six feet away from all walls—stood a cherry-brown grand piano. "This is my baby," Will said.

"Is it an antique?"

"Belonged to my parents. My mother taught me to play on these keys when I was a boy."

Hyde ran his hand along the lid, then brushed the dust on his pants. "You play it out here?"

"Reconstructing. But she plays nice; low inharmonicity, exceptional overtones..."

Crickets.

"Looks like my garage," The Other Will said, "but with hanging piano strings instead of tail pipes."

"If you need it tuned, I got a guy," said Marvin-the-architect.

Will smiled. "I enjoy the process."

After two years of tinkering with the piano, it came to represent all the songs that Will wasn't allowed to play at Big Blue's; the songs he could write _if only he had the perfect instrument_. The keys were more than imitation ivory. Each finger pedal was like a blank canvass; the combination of black-and-white keys represented infinite possibilities. He still remembered the evening Sarah pulled the blanket off the mysterious lump on the stable floor. At the time, he didn't care to see some relic from his past, but after the dust snapped from the blanket, twirled for a moment in the air, then cleared to reveal the legless piano, something inside him clicked. Broken strings cascaded from the sides. The lid was dangling from the base like a loose tooth. _But it didn't matter._

Next month, it would stand majestically in their living room. Janie would learn to play. Sarah would take lessons again. William would write a requiem while his wife cooked dinner. The old piano would bring his family together better than any plasma TV ever could.

Hyde bumped a hammer from its hanger among the wall of tools and it clattered loudly against the workbench. "Dangit!" he said. "Sorry, bud."

Will remembered his plan to socialize. He opened a corner cabinet and removed a cedar box with a gold latch. He flipped it open and a creamy leather smell flooded the studio. "Can I offer anyone a cigar?"

"No thanks."

"I'm good."

"Sue would kill me."

Marvin and "The Other Will" put up their hands and shook their heads.

Will forced a smile. "Anyone?"

More crickets.

He shut the box. "Well, I can't smoke by myself." He began to slide the box back into its cubby—

"Hold up!" It was Hyde. "I'll smoke with ya."

Will pulled out the box and gave the kid a skeptical grin.

"I smoked a hookah once," he said.

"Ah."

"Well... sort of. It was tobacco-less... uh..."

"Shisha."

"Right."

"You know not to inhale?"

Hyde shrugged and removed a cigar from the box.

The other men became distracted by the intricacies of Will's studio. They mulled around the workspace and discussed the heavy rain West Michigan received last week.

Will bit the end of his cigar.

Hyde mimicked.

He removed a stainless-steel zippo from the box and lit them both.

Hyde took a few quick puffs to start the tip, then surprised Will by taking the smoke fully in his mouth without coughing. "Thanks," he said.

Will nodded. "Not a problem."

* * *

"On the first day, God created the dog and said, 'Dog, I want you to sit by the door bark at anyone who walks by. Do this, and I will give you a lifespan of twenty years.'"

Hyde jerked back in the wicker rocking chair to dodge a bee.

Will sipped iced tea and continued his joke. "So the dog says to God, 'That's a long time to be barking! Let's say I'll bark for only _ten_ years, and you can keep the other ten.' So God agreed."

The gasoline smell of citronella candles kept the mosquitos away, but not the bees. Hyde wondered if there was a nest under the porch. Either that, or they were buried in the creases of the old slate roof. He tried to keep his cool, even when a particularly fat bee landed on his bare knee. He froze, but never broke eye contact with Will.

"On the second day, God took soot from the Earth and created the monkey. He said, 'Monkey, you will entertain people. You'll do tricks and make them laugh. For this, I'll give you a twenty-five year lifespan.' But the monkey said: 'Tricks for twenty years? That's far too long to perform! How about I give back ten years like the dog did?' And God agreed."

Hyde nodded and smirked, not at the joke, but at Will's deliberate pacing, hand gestures, and silly grin. He held the Coke bottle to the sun to check for drowning bees, then took a swig and filtered it through his teeth, just in case.

"On the third day, God created the cow from the dust. After the cow was formed, God said, 'You will go into the field with the farmer and labor all day under the sun. You'll have calves and give milk to support the farmer's family. For this, I'll give you a lifespan of sixty years.' But the cow said: 'That's a very hard life to live for sixty years! How about _twenty_ , and I'll give back the other forty?"

The screen door opened behind Will, and Sarah stepped out with her own glass of tea. She leaned against the frame and propped the door with her shoulder.

Will leaned forward in his chair. "On the fourth day, God created humans—the most marvelous of his creation—and he said, 'Eat, sleep, play, marry, and enjoy your life. You will do this for a lifespan of twenty years.' But the human said, 'Only twenty? That doesn't seem like enough! Can't you give me that twenty, then add the forty the cow gave back, the ten the monkey gave back, and the ten the dog gave back? That makes eighty. That seems fair."

Hyde and Sarah made eye contact and grinned. Will didn't notice.

"'Okay,' God said, 'you asked for it.' So he gave humanity all eighty years. So, that's why we eat, sleep, play, and enjoy ourselves for our first twenty years of our lives. For the next forty we slave in the sun to support our family. For the next ten years we act like monkeys to entertain our grandchildren. And for the last ten years we sit on the front porch and bark at everyone."

It wasn't until the punch-line that Hyde remembered the joke from an email that recently circulated the subdivision mailing list. He laughed anyway. "So true," he said. "So true!"

"I'm glad you stuck around," Sarah said and wobbled the screen with her knee. "Maybe you can convince my husband to spray for bees."

"Bees?" Hyde said. "I didn't notice."

"William and Janie don't mind them. Of course, I'm the only one who's ever been stung."

"They'll be gone in a few minutes," Will said.

Sarah replied in a singsong voice, "They'll only get worse in the summer!"

"I'm on top of it."

"Supper will be ready in fifteen. Hyde, do you want to stay for Easter dinner? The party's always exhausting so I didn't plan a big meal, but you and Kayla are welcome to join us."

"Kay and I have an unbroken tradition of cooking a new dish on Sunday nights. Tonight is cucumber gazpacho with shrimp. But thanks for the offer!"

"Well, that certainly beats grilled cheese and spaghetti."

"Homemade," Will added.

(Later, when Hyde recalled his relationship with the Carmel family, these simple moments of conversation would slip easily into his mind. Bad jokes and dinner invitations were not uncommon in his past social life, but something inherent in the soft spring nights on the neighbor's porch set these friends apart from the others. Even when future events would needle them apart, Hyde would still return to feelings of familiar comfort at the smell of citronella.)

Sarah prodded Hyde about kids, to which he replied, "We're not quite ready. That's why we got a dog!" then left a minute later to tend to the grilled cheese. The rest of the evening was left to the boys.

"Beautiful family," Hyde said.

"There's nothing more important. Kayla seems nice."

"Yeah," Hyde said, praying Will didn't ask about his wife's refusal to take his last name.

"You're lucky to find your soulmate at such an early age. I was twenty-eight when I met Sarah."

"It's nice. I never had to worry about the whole dating scene. She cooks for me and supports me in my business. She makes me feel comfortable. I guess I found the right person right off the bat."

"That's rare these days. Before Sarah, time seemed endless. I would ebb and flow... intaking so much garbage that my body couldn't handle it anymore..."

"What do you mean?"

"I would give up. I would quit and get clean. Later I would realize that I wasn't quitting at all; I was merely stopping for a while, letting my body cool down so it could handle the next cycle of shit. I was never done... never _really_ done until I met Sarah."

"Are you talking about Bill?"

William took the lemon from his empty glass, bit the corner, and tore the meat from the rind.

"Your silence on the subject only makes it more fascinating. What was it? Eh? Sex, drugs... rock and roll?"

Will chewed on the lemon and dropped the skin into his glass. "Ballet."

Hyde narrowed his brow. "Ballet?"

"I don't hide anything."

"Well, what's the worst thing Bill did?" Hyde wasn't sure if it was real or imagined, but as Will considered the question, a sparkle like a tiny shard of glass reflected in his eye as he watched the setting sun. Hyde finally understood his friend's placid demeanor and air of fatherly superiority; it was an aura that could only be attained after years upon years of _been there, done that._

"The worst thing?" Will mulled over his reply for a minute longer. "I destroyed my ambitions. I destroyed them, rebuilt them, then left them behind. That's the worst thing Bill did."

"At least you had an exciting life. The worst thing I've ever done was let my grass grow past five inches." He nodded to his house a hundred yards away. "Can you believe that? Two weeks in a subdivision and I already get a notice for disobeying a covenant. I don't even have a lawnmower yet."

"Use mine for now. Let me know when you need it and I'll give you the padlock key to the back of the stables."

"I wrote the HOA an apology letter. Told them I'd get on it ASAP."

"Not big on yard work?"

"Not exactly."

"You seem like the type who would make an extra effort. How long does it take to get your hair like that every morning?"

"I just don't like yard work," Hyde replied.

"Twenty minutes?"

"To cut the grass?"

"To fix your hair."

"Three."

"Liar."

"Okay, ten. But it takes a lot longer to mow grass." Hyde smirked and stretched his feet to the porch railing. He readjusted his position in the wicker chair— "Ouch. Shit!" He jumped up and batted his khaki shorts.

"Everything okay?" Will asked.

"Frickin bee stung my thigh!"

* * *

Sarah wasn't much of a cook. The few things she made well—chili, green beans with brown sugar, carrot cake—were some of Will's favorites, but he never really cared for food. Breakfast was irrelevant. Lunch got in the way of real work. And dinner was just an excuse to spend time with his ladies.

Sarah served spaghetti from a fancy china bowl. Will often joked that their most humble meals were eaten off the "good-good" china since it was only removed from the buffet when the normal dishes were dirty.

"We're out of cheese," Sarah said, placing a platter of garlic bread beside Janie. The "garlic bread" was actually burnt hamburger buns left over from the picnic and sprinkled with garlic powder.

Will stood, pulled out Sarah's chair, and kissed her head. "Dinner looks incredible."

The dining room was trapped in a perpetual stage of redecoration. Will's father and grandfather laid the brick wall in the early thirties and soaked the rocky pores with lead paint. Since returning home, Will repainted the brick eight times at the call of his creative whims. When Janie was a toddler, he and Sarah took extra precautions to check the carpet for hazardous, multicolored flecks of lead.

"Janie," Sarah said, "do you want to tell Dad what you decided tonight?"

The day in the sun had accentuated Janie's freckles and she looked more like her mother than ever. "I want Miss Kayla to be my next dance teacher," she said. She smiled at Will as if she'd just won a battle he didn't know they were fighting.

"I thought we agreed that Miss Alice would be your teacher."

"Yeah, but Dad, Miss Kayla is really cool and she has a brand new studio and it's right next to the coffee shop and Meg and Becca already signed up."

"Perfect timing for new neighbors," Sarah added.

Will took a bite of burnt bread and mulled over his response. "I guess I always thought my little girl was better than the other kids; always at the top of her class... the best at anything she put her mind to. But if you want to sacrifice your talent for friends and a coffee shop, I guess that's the decision a little girl should make."

"Real nice, Will."

"What? I'm sure Kayla's sweet, but she's not as talented as Alice."

"Miss Alice is old," Janie said, crinkling her nose.

"That means she's a better teacher," Will replied. "She has the trophy case to prove it."

The phone rang. Sarah stood. She wiped her lips and glared at Will.

" _What?"_ he mouthed, but she left to get the call.

Janie leaned to her father and whispered, _"I think I agree with you."_

Sarah answered the phone. "Carmel residence... Yes, she's here... No, she's fine. Why?" The concern in Sarah's voice was apparent. "What's your name?" she paused and waited for a response. Nothing. She looked at the phone, then hung it up.

"Well?" Will asked as she took her seat.

"Some girl just told me my daughter has cancer."

"I don't have cancer," Janie said.

"I know, honey."

"Just a prank?" Will asked.

"I guess so. She sounded younger than Janie."

"Odd."

Sarah didn't miss a beat. "Janie only has a few close friends and they all moved to Miss Kayla's new studio."

"What about... what's her name. Tracy Cavenaugh? The cop's daughter."

"Dad," Janie said, "she treats me like I'm a retard."

"Janie Grace Carmel," Sarah said and clanked her fork on her plate.

" _Retarded_. Whatever."

"She can say, 'retard,'" Will said.

"No, darling, she can't. There's a mentally handicapped boy in her class."

"She doesn't have to say 'mentally handicapped' either." He looked to Janie. "Just say, 'retarded,' okay?"

"Okay."

Sarah scowled then looked to her daughter. "What's wrong with Tracy, baby?"

Janie ran the blunt end of her fork across her scar as she stared into her noodles. "Nothing."

Sarah cocked her head to the side and glared at Will with big brown eyes.

Sarah held it to Will. "I'm not doing it again."

He took the device and nearly answered when Janie yelled, "Hold on! What's the caller ID?"

He looked at the digital readout, pulled a pen from his lapel, scribbled the number on a sauce-stained napkin, and gave it to Janie.

"I'll Google it." She jumped up and ran to the family computer in the living room.

Will answered. "Carmel residence."

"Hello there, Mr. Carmel." It was a little girl's voice. "I'm afraid I got disconnected with your wife."

"I'm sorry about that. What can I do for you?"

"I just wanted to call and tell you that your daughter has cancer."

"Really? That's horrible news. And which hospital may I ask is calling?"

"This is Doctor Brown. And I'm sorry about the bad news."

Janie typed furiously at the keyboard. Sarah shook her head.

"That _is_ bad news," William said with artificial concern. "I don't want to be the one to tell her!"

"It's bone cancer. But it could spread to her other organs too."

"I see."

Janie scribbled a name on the napkin and ran back to Will. _Mr. R Bellford._

"Okay, Doctor Brown, I'm afraid I need verify your results with Mrs. Bellford... _your mother_."

Silence.

"I know who you are, honey, and I know where you live. I know your phone number is 231-555-9088."

The girl began to cry.

"How would you feel if you called someone whose daughter actually did have cancer?"

"I'm—I'm sorry. Don't call my—"

"Can you imagine the pain you might have caused a family if they believed you?"

"Please don't tell my—"

"Did you call anyone else tonight?"

"Y—y—y—yes. But—"

"Do you still have their numbers?"

"Y—y—yes, sir."

"I want you to call them back right now and apologize for making a joke out of a serious disease."

"But—"

"I have a very sophisticated computer hooked up to my phone and it can tell me who you called and who you didn't. If I don't see you dialing those other numbers the second I hang up, I'm going to call Mrs. Bellford and tell her what her daughter has been up to. Do you understand?"

"Y—y—"

"Good. And I want you to promise me that you'll never do something this stupid again."

"I promise."

"Okay."

"I'm sorry."

"I know you are, honey. Now make those calls."

"Okay."

Will hung up and looked at Janie. He raised his hand for a high-five. She slapped it and grinned.

"You two are evil," Sarah said, then finally cracked a smile.

"Tell you what," Will said to Janie. "You can use the phone for ten extra minutes tonight. Then I want you right in the shower."

Janie leapt from her seat.

"We'll finish our discussion about teachers later," he added, but she was already pecking his cheek and darting up the stairs.

Sarah stood and gathered the plates. "I just want her to be happy."

"I want her to succeed."

"Dance should be fun. Kayla's a fun person. I think we're teaching our daughter a bad lesson if we make this about competition."

Will cleared the glasses. "It _is_ a competition. The point is to be the best. If we don't encourage that, we're no better than soccer coaches that give everybody a trophy."

"She has friends at Kayla's studio."

"She'll make friends with Alice!"

"You don't know that."

"She's a kid! She'll make friends!"

Sarah dropped a pan in the iron sink and turned to face her husband. "Did you watch your daughter today?"

"When?"

"At the picnic. Did you watch her in the street while the Garland kids played hopscotch? They asked her to join and she turned them down. She waited until Sean came out in his rabbit suit. Everybody left and she played by herself."

"I didn't see that."

"I don't want her to be an outcast like her father."

Will flipped on the faucet, "I had friends, Sarah. Forgive me if I think our daughter will be okay by herself."

"Not everybody will share your experiences."

"What's this new social kick you've been on? Is this related to the man-date you set up?"

"I thought you'd like to meet somebody new."

Will dried his plate and started for the stairs. "Leave the mess for morning. I'm going to bed."

Sarah followed. "You like him! You talked on the porch for an hour."

"It doesn't mean it was okay to have him ambush me at work." Will kicked his shoes to the bottom step and made his way up, rolling the palms of his feet on the edge of every carpeted step.

"I want us to have friends," she said.

"We just had fifty friends over!"

"We had fifty _people_ over. You couldn't name ten of them."

Janie's door was closed and locked at the top of the stairs. Her voice was spunky and interspersed with giggles.

Will and Sarah spent the length of the hallway in silence. At the end, he opened the bedroom door and held it for his wife. She slid the dimmer to half, then sauntered to her vanity while unbuttoning her blouse.

Potted Easter Lilies stood erect on both nightstands. The stems and leaves melded with the green accent wall behind the headboard.

"You were supposed to give those away," Will said.

"I did. These were gifts from Mrs. Danthers and Kayla."

Will pulled off his shirt and dropped his slacks to the floor. "She's really trying to win us over."

Sarah tilted her head and removed her earrings.

"Keep those on."

She froze with one between her fingers. "Why?"

Will snapped a Lily from its stem. "They're sexy."

Sarah turned to him, blouse loose and open so he could see her white bra against olive skin. She pushed her thumbs between her skirt and underwear, slid them down, and wiggled them off. She approached Will but didn't touch, and he tucked the flower behind her ear. He stared into her eyes, irises hanging like two bedroom-brown moons from her lids. She spoke in a seductive hush, "I want you to be friends with Hyde. And I want Janie to pick her own dance teacher."

"You're a tease, you know that?"

"Mmm." Sarah lowered her hand, grabbed his hard-on, and squeezed.

"You're not helping your case, sweetheart."

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

"Not even a little."

She squeezed harder. "Hyde's mother died last year. I want you to be his friend."

"Can we not talk about Hyde while you're squeezing my—"

She grabbed the back of his head with her free hand, rose into a high relevé, and kissed his lips.

"I like the guy," Will said. "He's growing on me."

"And Janie's teacher?" Her breath brushed his face with every word.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow."

"Nooo," she said, affectionately drawing out the "o." "Tonight, please."

Will never backed down this easy. One time it took a pair of handcuffs and choke-hold to get him to agree to a new flowery sofa. But the way the satin petals held back her chestnut hair... _the freckles she passed to their daughter..._ "Fine," he said. "It's Janie's decision."

"Mmm." Sarah released her grip and slid her hand into his underwear.

Will slipped the blouse from her shoulders to reveal a gold chain and twenty-four-karat cross—no bigger than her fingernail—that he had purchased for their fifteenth wedding anniversary.

Hidden pipes groaned and clicked with perfect timing as Janie turned on the shower.

They wouldn't have to keep quiet tonight.

* * *

Will couldn't sleep if he tried. The piano bar was closed on Easter Sunday, so it was back to work at his real job.

In the stables, he worked the way a mechanic might, washing hands with WD-40 in a paint-crusted sink, mumbling to himself when problems arose, patting his pockets for missing tools. He twisted the tuning hammer on the lowest "A" pin until it rang clear and true. To set the pin, he turned it clockwise until the note was a hair above pitch, then turned it back _ever-so-slightly_ to the left. He punched the corresponding key to test the sound. Perfect.

William.

Will pulled his torso from the open lid, dropped the tuning hammer and looked to the door.

" _William_."

The voice was clear. Feminine. A whisper.

"Sarah?" he asked, but it didn't sound like Sarah. "Who's there?"

" _William_?" the voice said again, playfully this time. The sound couldn't be coming from outside; it wasn't muffled by the metal walls.

He ran to the front window, plastic and nearly opaque with age. His house was dark. So was Hyde's. There was no sign of movement in the woods; no sign of a woman speaking his name.

Will turned from the window and stepped toward the front door, but the voice engulfed him as if a dozen women were speaking in unison. " _Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you imagined!_ "

Will's hands flailed, working their way from one corner of the stables to the other in a clockwise direction over the wall of hanging tools and through the shelves with rusty gallons of paint. "Who are you!" he screamed. "Janie?"

It wasn't Janie.

" _Go confidently in the direction of your dreams!"_ it said again, louder, and he scrambled and twisted but it came from everywhere as tangible as sound can be. He searched for the source—" _Live the life you imagined!_ "—in drawers, out windows, under blankets, anywhere and everywhere and when it was over, his mind lost control of his limbs and the voice said " _William_ " again and he fell to his knees. "Who are you?"

" _Live. The life. You imagined._ "

There was no question; the angelic voice had no physical source.

In less than two minutes, reality had crumbled. Will's mind and soul were at war, tearing into each other and pawing at the vulnerable spots. His brain told him this sort of thing never actually happens. His soul begged him to see a miracle as a miracle.

" _Follow your dreams, William Carmel._ " (Follow your dreams? That was something his mother would have said... but she was thirty years deceased and this wasn't her voice.)

What would an atheist believe? If he wasn't religious, would _he_ be taking this seriously?

" _William..._ "

Yes. _He was sure the answer was yes._

Will pushed his trembling body from the dirt and turned in a circle. LSD did this to him once. He was somewhere between twenty-three and twenty-five living in an apartment off Pico in Chicago. He was in the park at midnight with a group of friends. Two Necco Wafers dropped with acid and God was telling him dirty jokes on the merry-go-round.

This was different. It was real. Plus, he wasn't _on_ anything.

Then it appeared at the top of his hill. From the plastic window above the workbench, through the dust and grime, Will could see the silhouette of the grassy mound. But now, something sat on top. It had a distinct form; _a stage_ , he imagined, _an amphitheater_ , but it was bright and translucent like a ghost. Other than the slight transparency, it seemed as solid as the piano beside him. He wanted to touch it; to run to the hill and marvel at the divine photograph. The hologram was not as physical as the voices, but William was certain of what he saw.

For a moment, he considered that it could be an acid flashback. They were rare now, but the last instance occurred less than a year ago so he couldn't rule out the possibility.

What happened next would be described later with the story of the Dutch boy with his finger in the dike. Will's logical mind was the boy's finger. And once he overcame his mortal perimeters—once he removed his finger from the dike—enlightenment flowed, eight pounds per gallon, ramming him like the little boy in the surge. It was _truth_ (he would say) bubbling from within; ideas he had to write down.

The voices stopped, but the vision did not and the flood of "truth" was only beginning. He grappled for the nearest writing surface—a yellow notepad stained with a ring of paint—and began drawing measurements of the stage now crystal in his mind. Will never had formal training in drafting or architecture, but as an artistic savant, the basic skills came naturally. It started with a square about sixty— _no, eighty—_ feet on each side, then a half-circle for seating. Two parallel lines signified a street weaving through scribbles of forest, then up the hill to a small parking lot.

_This could be a book,_ he thought. _Or a screenplay!_ But he would dwell on the implications later. Right now, he had to get it down.

The first draft was too small. He ripped off the top sheet and began again, this time adding twelve rows of weatherproof seats to the front, a fly system in the right-wing, and a chorus room attached to a hallway in the basement. He made these notes before realizing that he no longer had to consult the vision on the hill; this was _inside him_.

A third draft. A concession stand on the exterior wall; bathrooms outside, bathrooms inside, two small changing rooms to the left of the chorus room. The fourth draft showed a loading dock along the back wall with an exit on stage-right. The fifth draft included a boardwalk through the woods and a staircase up the back of the hill. _Crinkle. Trash. Number six._ The stage never changed between drafts, but as details were added and the image sharpened, he needed more space.

If he stopped, he would lose it.

What began as a simple square had become a full blueprint only twenty minutes later. Details and measurements were written with sophisticated penmanship that Will never knew he possessed.

The seventh and final version specified the angles of the wings, the curve of the curtain (did amphitheaters have curtains?), and the exact number of steps descending from each wing to the hallway and chorus room below. But all at once came the cherry on top; an opening in the center of the stage... _a lift for his piano_. There was a mechanism beneath; a platform with hydraulics for the instrument, and a hatch that opened to reveal Will's rising performance. He mapped out this square precisely, just off-center on stage-left.

The revelation of the hatch reminded Will that he belonged to a family of performers, not unlike the Von Trapp Family Singers. This theater would showcase Janie's dance and Sarah's acting! _William would write again._ Or direct! He would command the stage with the ultimate display of passion and creativity!

Will ripped his final drawing from the pad and sat on the dirt. The promise of something spiritual lurked here; _a divine reason_. This stage wasn't just a stage, something would _happen_.

The stage would serve a purpose.

The stage would be _good_.

Memories of the voice were already fading. For a fraction of a second, Will wondered if he really heard it at all.

Just when he was about to declare it a dream, she returned.

_Laughter_. It was excited laughter, as if Will's acceptance of this challenge was precisely what she was looking for.

And Will laughed with her. He threw back his head and cackled. The voice grew louder until tears filled his eyes.

William Carmel had heard the voice of God.

* * *

Will awoke on the ground with a patch of pebbles as a pillow. He coughed dust. He pushed himself up. He was still clutching the yellow paper with the sketch of the theater.

He had to tell someone. Sarah was his confidant, the whispering box where he stored his secrets... but he couldn't just drop it on her.

This was one of those hypothetical scenarios he dreamed up as a kid. _What if you knew your mother was going to die; how would you convince your father you weren't crazy?_ Or, _What if you went back in time and found your younger self; how would you convince him who you are?_ Or, _What if the voice of an angel told you to build an amphitheater; how would you explain it to your wife?_

Sarah was a suspicious person... hell, _he made her that way._

He could piss his pants. Cry? She rarely saw him cry. It made him sad to think he might need to manipulate his own wife so she could see the truth, but his _word_ wouldn't be enough.

What if she came to him and said "William, I'm hearing voices?" Would he believe her? Sarah had faith in God. She had faith in miracles. But if one presented itself to her—simply and honestly—would she believe it? Or would she push Will away like she did in the beginning?

A relationship with Sarah could only exist with full disclosure. Trust and honesty were the foundation of their marriage. If Will was caught in a lie, she would leave him for good.

_But there would need to be theatrics..._ and it didn't take him long to realize that he could only convince his wife of the truth if he pissed his pants and cried.

* * *

Sarah once slept through a tornado. It wasn't actually a tornado, but in '98, hurricane-force winds attacked West Michigan and ripped out the only tree in their front yard and sent it snapping and barreling right outside her window. The tree didn't disturb her slumber, nor did William, trampling like fifty gorillas up the stairs. The sound melded with a dream but didn't wake her until the bedroom door slammed open and she saw his dark form huffing and puffing like the big-bad wolf.

"You'll wake Janie!" she said, then realized the strangeness of the situation. "Honey?"

William didn't respond.

Sarah could almost taste the urine. Sitting up, she remembered she was still naked and wrapped a linen around her body. She turned on the lamp. William glowed orange. He was crying. His cheekbones—usually defined and masculine—were bloated. His crotch was dark.

"I heard a voice," he said. "In the stables while I was working."

"Sit down. What happened?"

"She told me to follow my dreams... I can't sit. I'm wet."

Sarah fished around the carpet for her underwear. "I'm calling the doctor."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. Did you faint?"

"I fell asleep after."

"After what?"

"The voice."

"Take your pants off."

He did.

"And your underwear."

He did.

"I'm putting these in the wash and you're gonna tell me why I'm not calling the hospital."

"I'm fine. I'm rational. I just heard a voice... or maybe voices... talking to me while I tuned the piano."

His claim felt like a waking-dream, the kind where she would wake up, stretch, brush her teeth, comb her hair, then realize she hadn't even left the bed. Maybe instead of gathering his urine-stained jeans and dropping them in the wash, she was laying in bed half asleep. Either way, the sun would be out in the morning to shed light on the absurdity of the night.

The machine kicked in, gushed, and stifled the conversation. Sarah pulled a Calvin College sweater over her head, then approached her husband and touched the ghost-like imprint of pebbles in his upper jaw. "What did they sound like?" she asked.

"It was just one, but she was everywhere."

"Was it a joke? Was someone outside?"

"I checked. The voice was too clear."

"Was there a TV on? A radio maybe?"

"I don't have a TV or radio in the stables. I work in silence. She said my name, Sarah."

She was afraid to ask the next logical question. "Did you imagine it?"

"Have I been acting crazy?"

"Maybe a fly or a small bug got inside your ear—"

"And shouted words at me? You _do_ think I'm nuts!"

Sarah pulled away and left the laundry room. "How am I supposed to react to this? I should just say, 'Okay, you heard voices, goodnight?'"

"How about having faith in your husband? Have I done this before? _Anything like this?_ "

"If I dropped something like this on you—"

He paused. "I thought of that. I'm sorry. You're handling it great."

William never lied anymore. He couldn't. Years ago they played Texas hold-em with her sister, Alli, and brother-in-law, Rick. Will did great when he went heads up against anyone else, but Sarah simply had to ask, "Do you have something better than a ten-high flush?" and she could read the glint in his eye and the dimple in his left cheek.

Tonight he said he heard voices. He wasn't lying.

"I believe you," she said. "If you're telling me this happened... I believe you."

"I know what I heard."

"What did it say?"

"It told me to follow my dreams."

"That's all?"

"She said to live the life I imagined."

"Okay."

He touched her hand. "There's more."

She wasn't ready for more.

"I saw something."

She grinned. She couldn't help it. It wasn't meant to be condescending, but she grinned and laughed. "You _saw_ something?"

The next hour was an emotional roller-coaster that brought husband and wife from the bedroom to the kitchen, to the living room, back to the laundry room to switch the clean pants to the dryer, then back to the bedroom. Sarah initiated every transition and William followed a step behind, explaining the minutia of his experience to her backside. If she stopped to look in his eyes, she would know he was telling the truth, and right now, nothing scared her more.

He told her about a vision of a stage, how it looked transparent but solid at the same time. He told her that there was a green curtain and a trapdoor that opened to reveal his piano. He told her that their family's talent was being wasted; that Janie would benefit from this too. He showed her the seven drawings, each one more complex than the last. He told her that this was God's will for their lives.

By the time they finished the circle through the house, Sarah felt like she heard the voice too.

"It's exciting," William said on the edge of the bed (if his legs were short enough to kick and wiggle, Sarah thought they might). "This stage is like a blank canvas. We can do _anything_."

"The blank canvas in your head is cheaper."

"But what do you think?"

"I think it's late."

"Sarah, what do you think!"

"I think I want to believe in miracles—"

"You do."

"—but I need to be rational."

"It's not exactly a rational situation."

She sighed. "If God wants this for us, he'll understand that we need to be practical. Write up a business plan and present it to me."

"You're kidding."

"If you're going to build a theater, you'll need one anyway."

"Done."

"You'll never get a variance on that land."

"It's commercial property, remember?"

William smiled that same shit-eating grin and Sarah's mind finally gave way to faith. She remembered the zoning debacle several years ago when urban sprawl began consuming Boulevard Street on the other side of the hill. The zoning commission finally granted a variance that turned the strip of agricultural land into commercial property and, with perfect timing, William petitioned for the variance to include their hill. Economically, it made sense; the hill would be more valuable as commercial property, especially when Boulevard Street boomed. Now it seemed there was a reason for the change.

"I need to ask you one more question," she said.

"Anything."

"You're going to be upset, but if I'm going to submit to this crazy idea, I get to ask."

"Then ask."

"Were you—"

"No, Sarah... I've been clean for twenty-four years."

She leaned her forehead against her husband's and looked into his grey eyes.

For the Carmel family, Easter Sunday was finally over.

**TWO - The Evolution Of the Brandywine Prophet**

When Kayla and Hyde talked about the birthday get-together, they made it sound like other guests were invited. But when Sarah, William and Janie arrived fashionably late to a party with only two hosts and themselves, Sarah was glad she had convinced her husband to drop by.

It was only two days ago that William heard the voice. He spent those days habitually distracted as if there was an invisible fly that he was intent on squashing. In bed the night before, Sarah awoke to frantic whispers. _"Live your imagined life,"_ he moaned. _"Pursue your dreams!"_

They didn't tell Janie about the incident, and as far as Sarah was concerned, they never would.

"Do you have carbon-monoxide detectors installed?" William asked on his official tour. Sarah already saw the house last week after book club, but tagged along anyway.

"We carry them at Whitaker Electronics," Hyde said, "so of course they're installed! Top of the line, in fact. I sell six of those bad-boys a month." Kayla's husband was twenty-six but still needed to shed some baby fat. He wasn't pudgy, and he seemed to be in spectacular shape, but his face was smooth and round and his shirts looked a half-size too small.

Janie followed at Sarah's heels and glanced around the master bedroom. "Looks like Megan's house," she said. "And Tracy's. And Hannah's."

Hyde and Kayla laughed.

Sarah pressed her nail into Janie's neck. "We live in a subdivision, sweetie. The houses all have similar floor plans."

"I know, I know," she said. "Boooooring."

"Boring to you," Hyde replied, "but clean, functional and affordable to us!"

The men found seats in front of a muted baseball game while Sarah and Kayla discussed color options for the bathroom curtains. When the women finally made it to the kitchen and ladled punch into wine glasses, Sarah overheard "man-talk" from the living room and worried about her husband's ability to handle it.

Janie sat Indian-style on cut-loop carpet and rubbed a balloon in her hair. She pulled it away and watched the static tug at the strands. Sarah settled into the puffy tan pillow beside her hubby and gave him his glass. Kayla sat on the arm of Hyde's chair, pointed her thumb at him, and said to Sarah, "He'll pout for the rest of the night if his guys lose."

"It's my _team,_ honey. Not my 'guys.'"

"William doesn't know the red guys from the blue," Sarah said.

"Not big into sports?" Kayla asked.

William blinked at the TV. "Nope."

"Simple enough!"

"I thought you liked dance," Hyde said. "Dance is a sport."

"Dance is not a sport," William muttered.

"Whoa, watch what you say around my wife, buddy!" Hyde laughed.

"Typical guy," Kayla said and rolled her eyes. "Dance is just as athletic as any 'boy-sport.'"

"It's not about that," William said.

Sarah knew her husband's "dance is not a sport" speech by heart, and quickly ran it through her head to assure it wouldn't offend Kayla.

"Well then," Hyde said, "explain yourself."

"I'm sorta trying to be a nicer person..."

Kayla grinned and shook her head. "We're all friends! You don't have to be nice, silly! Tell us what you think!"

William looked to Sarah. She shrugged with her eyes.

"Like I said, dance is not a sport. In sports, the objective is to win; to make the audience feel artificial euphoria by some loose connection to players that they'll never meet; tossing a toy back and forth to accomplish mindless objectives. Dance, on the other hand, has nothing to do with winning. Dance exists to heighten emotion. Competition and awards exist to urge dancers to become the best they can be, and the winner of a dance competition is simply the most prepared person for the intended goal. In sports, winning is the endgame. Players win so they can win so they can win so men can buy more beer and congratulate each other for sitting in front of a TV and cheering for athletes who are paid vast sums of money to provide meaningless entertainment that _artificially_ heightens emotion. I can't think of anything lower. And dance is anything but low."

Kayla looked at Sarah. "He's a genius. Seriously. A genius." She turned to William. "When my studio is done, will you speak to my class?"

"You really hate sports?" Hyde asked.

"Well, if i'm going to participate in a game, I'd like to be _in_ it. I'd like to experience mental or physical stimulation. Why watch a game? I could spend days watching a season of football, or I could take two minutes, flip a coin twenty-five times while rooting for heads, get all my excitement and grief out over the wins and losses, then go on living my life."

Hyde countered, "But it's not _just_ a game. People's jobs hang in the balance. There's money at stake."

"Of course. But a win for your team doesn't stimulate the economy. It just means that somebody that currently resides in your state might get more cash. And if he's traded to another team, he arbitrarily becomes your enemy. Still not a reason to cheer."

"You take the fun out of everything, don't you?" Hyde smiled.

William grinned and took another sip of his punch.

Hyde grabbed the remote and turned off the game. "This is Kay's night anyway!" He stood from the chair and kissed his wife's cheek. "Be right back, baby."

Sarah let her body relax now that William's rant was over. Their new friends seemed to tolerate his intolerance well.

Hyde opened the back door, yelled, "Gigs! Come on baby!" and a snow-white Bichon darted inside with claws clicking frantically on the kitchen floor, then he bolted to the living room to attack the guests.

Janie screamed. Her balloon popped. She screamed again.

"Hyde!" Kayla yelled, "Get the dog!"

Janie jumped to the couch and landed between her parents. Giggles followed with a running leap, but William caught the pup midair and held it to his chest.

"I'm so sorry!" Kayla exclaimed.

"She's okay," Will said.

"I'll put her back outside," Hyde said and extended his arms to take the dog.

"No, no," William said. "Janie's fine, right honey?"

She nodded. "Just scared me."

"She's not big on dogs," Sarah said with half a smile.

"I'm sorry I screamed," Janie said.

"Don't be sorry, sweetie!" Kayla said. "If we knew you weren't comfortable with dogs, we would've kept her outside. She doesn't bite at all; she's a very friendly pup."

Sarah watched her husband cradle the animal. He whispered unintelligible baby-talk to it, then let it lick his face.

Hyde settled back in his chair and rubbed Kayla's back. The room relaxed to its status quo.

"Okay, Mr. William," Kayla said. "Tough question time!"

Will jokingly winced, set the dog in his lap, then sat up straight. "Okay, Miss Kayla. What do you want to know?"

Janie let Giggles sniff her hand, then cautiously touched its head.

"There's a big mystery about what you do. I mean, Hyde and Sarah told me about your job at the piano bar. Said you're incredible; like a piano genius."

"That's about right." William didn't like to be put on the spot, but a little adult discussion would be good for him... and Sarah wouldn't jump to his defense this time.

"Your wifey says you're a writer too? Movies and books or something?"

"I dabbled in both when I was your age."

"You're not working on something now?"

"I take a lot of notes. Ideas. Jot 'em down and save 'em..."

"Waiting for the big one?"

"I guess you could say that."

Sarah added, "He does a little of everything. Dance, theater, novels, music..."

"Eh," he grunted.

"Don't be so modest, honey. It doesn't suit you."

They laughed.

Kayla pressed on, "Give me a quick rundown of your creative work."

"Let's see..." William pressed his hands into his stubble. Whatever it was that he heard that night, Sarah was convinced it was changing him. If someone bombarded him with this many questions a week ago, he would have brushed them away with a sarcastic remark. Tonight, he continued. Politely and succinctly.

"I've written two complete feature-length screenplays, sixteen partial features, and several shorts. We started production on one of the scripts; a drama with musical numbers, untitled, about a chorus girl with big dreams who ditches her abusive boyfriend. We had money, talent, locations... then the project fell through. I wrote three-hundred pages of a novel on the same topic, but never finished. I have three more incomplete novels, all fiction. Four of the partial screenplays turned into partial theater plays; none were produced, but I did direct a friend's theater piece in Chicago. I choreographed several dances during that time. A few of them made it into amateur productions. When Janie danced for Miss Kimberly, I choreographed her ballets. I've written more than sixty original songs, some with lyrics, some as instrumental pieces. Nothing officially recorded though, but my daughter tells me there are computer programs that can do that for me. Most of the songs aren't written down, but," he tapped his head, "it's all in here."

Hyde nodded and stuck out his lower lip in a sincere look of fascination. Kayla's elbow rested on her knee and her hand smushed her cheek. "That is incredible. Absolutely incredible."

Sarah wasn't sure how to respond. It had been years since the last time she heard a list of her husband's endeavors back to back.

"I'm truly in awe of you," Kayla gushed. "I'd love to get inside that head and pick your brain."

"It's not as exciting as you'd think." William let Giggles jump from his lap, and Janie followed the dog to the floor. "But thank you."

"Seriously, Will," Hyde said, "That's insane."

A moment of silence was interrupted by Kayla's next prod. "Hyde tells me that you're not very confident in his abilities to run an electronics store."

"William Carmel!" Sarah said. "Why would you say that?"

"Aw, Kay!" Hyde moaned. "Why do you say things like that?"

"We're all friends! I'd love to know his thoughts! I was skeptical about his opinion of dance, but then I listened to his response and now I agree! Maybe I'll be equally impressed with this answer."

William smirked, "Your wife's quite the tigress."

"That's one word for it."

"Well, Miss Kayla," Will started, "I believe I said that owning a small business doesn't require passion. That point stands to argue, but I never said I wasn't confident in Hyde's abilities. He seems very knowledgeable about his line of work."

"I know he hates it when I say it," Kayla said, "but he's very good at his job. And passionate too; always talking about BluRays and mp3s—"

"Thank you, sweetie," Hyde said, then looked to William, "She goes on and on..."

Janie grabbed a rock from the glass coffee table and tossed it between her hands.

"Careful with that," Sarah said.

"Oh, she won't hurt anything," Kayla said. "Just another one of my hobby-stones!"

"We put ours in the bedroom. Such a lovely gift."

Janie set the stone back down on the coffee table. Sarah leaned forward to pick it up, but Hyde snatched it first. "Where did you stash your sandblaster?" he asked Kayla.

"In the closet..."

"You moved it by yourself?" he asked.

"Yeah..." her voice trailed off.

Hyde walked to the closet, opened and closed the door, and asked, "How about a game?"

Kayla's eyes lit the room. "Are you guys up for it?"

William seemed depleted from all the socializing, but Janie begged to stay a little longer. There were times when she was just as antisocial as her father, but being "one of the adults" seemed to excite her tonight. Sarah and Will agreed to stay.

A board was unfolded across the coffee table and the cards and tokens were dispersed. Between turns, William encouraged Janie to show off her ballet moves for Kayla who applauded and provided simple suggestions. Janie held a petite pose and Kayla gently adjusted the girl's limbs to perfect the stance.

Halfway through the game, William excused himself to the bathroom. When ten minutes passed, Sarah asked if she could use the master bath, but checked on her husband instead.

"Everything okay?" she whispered through the door.

He opened it and joined her in the hall. He was sweating. "I can't make her go away."

"Her?"

"The voice."

"Should we leave?"

"After the game."

"You'll be okay?"

"It's not gonna kill me."

"You're not going to tell them, are you?"

"I feel like I should."

"It's not a good idea."

"I know."

When the punch was gone and the game concluded, all eyes fell to Janie as her head drifted to the coffee table. She yawned. Kayla yawned too.

"Thanks for the beautiful evening," Sarah said and stood.

William shook Hyde's hand. "Tonight was fun. My porch is always open."

"How does tomorrow night sound?" Hyde asked.

"Absolutely."

"Then it's a date."

* * *

_(Live the life you've imagined!)_ The voice never left.

There was no sign of apprehension in Janie's eyes as she watched Hannah Banerjee play a dumbed down version of "Fur Elise" on the piano. Tonight marked the end of her years in the preteen division. She was only twelve years old, but next month she would dance with the teenagers in Miss Kayla's studio.

The recital was open to all Brandywine residents as a special talent show for the community and another excuse for parents to videotape their kids performing mundane works of art. Every year the recital was held in a different home; this year, Sandeep and Jenna Banerjee saved two months of piano tuition by hosting. He was a doctor (or lawyer, or business executive) and she was a stay-at-home helicopter for their daughter, Hannah, who was currently butchering Beethoven. Glancing around their (lovely) home, it seemed their favorite color was that light shade of beige that designers recommend painting walls before trying to sell. If Sandeep had any aesthetic ties left from his Indian heritage, Brandywine stripped it away like turpentine and slathered it with light brown.

In anticipation of the recital, Sandeep spent the week in his garage building a wooden platform—ten feet wide and six inches off the ground—for the dancers to perform on. He constructed the little stage so it could be disassembled and reassembled for future recitals. Miss Kimberly saw the set-up, gave the wood a quick tap, and deemed the particleboard unsuitable for dancing. Sandeep nodded and agreed, and now the stage stood upright, leaning belly out against the dining-room windows.

(Follow your dreams!)

Will spent the last five days suppressing the urge to herald his vision. Even now, sitting in rented folding chairs listening to dreck and clapping like he was at a golf tournament, he wanted to tip over the makeshift stage, climb on top and shout "Let me tell you what happened!" Sarah must have sensed his desire; three times, just when Will thought he might actually stand up and proclaim his news, her hand slid around Janie's back and squeezed his shoulder.

William recognized the end of "Fur Elise" and readied his polite clap. Hannah finished better than she started, slid from the bench, and stood to meet her applause.

"Finally!" a boy in the front row yelled and threw up his hands. Hannah blushed and crinkled her brow to hold back tears, but the audience couldn't help but snicker at the outburst. The little boy's parents grabbed him and told him "bad," but at least the kid had the cahoonas to say what everybody was thinking. _Better not do that after Janie's dance_ , Will thought.

The single-leaf program indicated that Janie was next. She rose from her seat and took the "stage" with what Will perceived as a slight air of superiority, or maybe boredom from doing what she had nearly perfected. He glanced at Hyde and Kayla (was she wearing a tutu?) and made sure his new friend had the video camera ready like they discussed. Will wanted this dance on tape, but he wouldn't stoop to the same level of obsessive adoration as the other parents.

Miss Kimberly ducked and scuttled to the CD player, pushed play, and Janie began her ballet dance to "Hallelujah."

Fifteen years ago, Will deemed "Hallelujah" his favorite song. But too many overly sentimental teenybopper renditions defiled Leonard Cohen's original erotic reverence and Will had to train his body not to shudder at the version Janie chose for her dance. "But I like the lyrics, Dad!" she said when he tried to talk her out of it. How could he argue with that?

Will split his attention between Janie and the little boy in front. He leaned forward to observe the toddler's face through the chairs and purses; joy from the successful outburst was still painted on his face. At about five years old, he wouldn't understand that jokes lose their humor the second time around, and with the chuckles he received after Hannah's performance, he'd try it again. Janie's reaction would be different, to say the least.

Janie lifted her arms in a slow-motion arc and let them float to her side, then twirled with a blue sash tracing circles around her waist.

In his years of watching children and professionals dance, Will was keenly aware of the difference between guys and girls. When boys dance, there's a perpetual look of concern for their image, a sarcasm to the dance that says, "I'm too cool for this and I know it." Their eyes never watch the audience, but focus instead on the dance itself; moves are anticipated and planned like "connect the dots" instead of an oil painting.

Girls are different. Even at three years old they're able to surrender themselves to the music and crowd; to posses a look of understanding, enjoyment and absolute sincerity.

Janie took performance-awareness to a new level. There was a vitality in her body language that could captivate an audience. The five-inch scar paradoxically disappeared when she danced; a mask of self-confidence that covered better than any makeup ever could.

Janie took Will's eyes into her own as she began her turns. She spun her body, arms bear-hugging an invisible partner, eyes snapping away from his with every turn then locking back on to anchor herself in the spinning room. Three turns. Four.

Will turned his eyes from Janie to the little boy, eyes exploding with anticipation for the next round of laughter.

" _Be careful, lil' man,"_ Will whispered to himself.

Janie ended after her fifth turn and posed. The parents clapped, and right on cue, the little boy yelled, "Finally!"

As predicted, the audience didn't find it funny the second time around. Before the child was ushered out by his blushing mother, Janie dropped her pose, spun to face the five-year-old, bit her bottom lip, and flipped up her middle finger.

* * *

Vegan snacks were offered at the conclusion of the performances. Sarah made the usual rounds as Will scanned the table of broccoli and hummus (and something that looked like a soupy mix of dead flies and seaweed). Janie, Meg and Becca snickered in the corner as Kayla twirled about the room in ballet slippers and a tutu that nearly matched the Banerjee's walls.

(Go confidently!)

Will's mind wouldn't let go.

(Go confidently in the direction of your dreams!)

He nodded and murmured his way through a conversation about golf with the other dance dads, but his internal debate blurred the discussion. _Should he tell Hyde what he saw?_

"Can I borrow the tape for the night?" Will asked when they were alone.

"I can make you a copy with all the performances," Hyde said.

"I just need Janie's dance."

"Simple enough." Hyde opened the digital camera with a whirr and handed Will the tape.

"Thanks." He nodded in Kayla's direction as she distributed her business card to a group of mothers, finally taking a break from her gleeful idiosyncrasies. "I see your wife is making the rounds."

"She didn't want to come tonight but I explained that marketing is part of any business; find your target client-base and move in. We're working on her confidence."

"I need to have a talk with her."

"About?"

Will ignored the question. "My front porch'll be open all week. Weatherman predicts storms."

Hyde smiled. "I'll be there."

Will patted his friend's back. "I'll tell the bees you're comin'." He thanked him for the tape and turned his attention to Kayla.

She was still standing with the other women, smiling, nodding and shaking hands. Will stooped behind a coat rack like a tiger in the brush, waiting for his prey to stray from the pack before pouncing.

"Kayla the dancer!"

She jumped at his sudden greeting, then grinned, shook her hips, and bobbed the tutu from side to side. "Hey there, old man. Excited for classes to start next month? Janie's gonna love it!"

Will nodded. "I'm going to put my cards on the table, Kay."

She flicked her eyes around the room. "Regarding?"

"I love you and your husband. Hyde is a great guy and I couldn't ask for better neighbors. Sarah and I had a pleasant evening with you the other night."

"We had fun too!"

"It's not a secret that, as a teacher, I like Miss Alice better than you. She's established. You're new. She has a wall of trophies. You don't."

"I—"

"My daughter is exceptional, Miss Kayla. I know all parents say that, but when I say it, I'm right. Janie has more promise than the others combined, and I want her to receive special attention."

"Will—"

"From one neighbor to another, I want you to know that I'm not being cruel; I'm simply betting against you. If Janie gets anything lower than the top prize at the first competition she dances in, I'm taking her to Miss Alice. If she gets the top prize, then you win the bet and I'll put a thousand dollars toward equipment for your studio and costumes for your large group numbers."

"It sounds fantastic, but—"

"Good. Sarah and I look forward to working with you as Janie's new teacher." William extended his hand and Kayla stared at it as if it was a dead porcupine. She finally took it, loosely, and shook it.

* * *

The pink wallpaper was still ripped down the middle of Janie's wall, revealing the beige paint below like an inverted representation of her scar. The three foot gash was Janie's handiwork from two years ago; she wanted a new color and Sarah and William told her she had to live with pink until she turned thirteen. She took her frustration out on the wallpaper.

As William entered the room, the sliver of hallway light expanded and illuminated Janie's wide eyes. He sat on the edge of the bed and she twisted to face him.

_(William, follow your dreams!)_ He needed to tell her.

"What is it?" she asked.

"What is what?" he said.

"You look like you wanna say somethin'." Janie was at the age where fantasy was succumbing to truth; where miracles and magic had logical explanations. She was already a skeptical child, always proving the nonexistence of Santa Clause to her preschool class or catching Sarah red-handed while replacing a blood-crusted molar with a five dollar bill beneath her pillow. To Janie, the Easter Bunny's name would always be Sean Umbers.

Will brushed a strand of dark-brown hair from her cheek. "You know that miracles still happen sometimes, right?"

"Name one."

"Well... like babies being born. That's a miracle."

"Babies are born all the time. That's just one of those things people say."

Will tried not to show his amusement. "Do you still pray every night? Even though Mom and Dad don't tuck you in anymore?"

"Yes, Dad. And you don't have to refer to yourself in the third person."

"I don't know where you get this stuff."

"It's called 'sixth grade'."

He nodded. _He couldn't tell her tonight._

Will touched his daughter's face and his thumb grazed the precious pink skin of her scar, newer than the rest, smooth but firm without the invisible yellow fur that lined the rest of her face. Maybe it was the transition into adolescence that spurred Janie's contradicting feelings about her blemish. There was a time when the scar was her bane; when weeks of school would pass with Janie buried beneath layers of covers like a caterpillar waiting to transform. That transformation happened slowly—and was happening now—though not in the way Janie (wrapped in blankets) prayed for. There were days when she would go to school without makeup and days when she would miss the bus because the blush wouldn't blend just so. Based on Sarah's recent claims, Janie only had two close friends. She shunned the rest and Will couldn't help but think the scar was the culprit. Whatever the case—whether she was accepting or rejecting it—the disfigurement was making her a stronger person in the same way a boy named Sue grows up faster than the rest.

"You know you need to do better," he said.

"My extensions?"

"The were loose. But that's not all."

"My toes were pointed perfectly."

"Not on the last verse. You got lazy. And your traveling?"

"You saw the space! They taped off a ten-foot stage. I was choreographed for thirty."

"You don't let that contain you."

"My spotting was excellent. I used you as my anchor. You can't give me shit for that."

"Your turns were good. They always are."

She pouted. "Anything else?"

He pulled the tape from his back pocket along with a folded piece of paper. "Hyde videotaped you." He swiped bubblegum wrappers off the nightstand and set the video and list beside Janie's lamp. "I want you to watch the tape in the morning. I wrote down the mistake on the left and the time you made the mistake on the right. I want you to study it and practice."

"That dance is finished."

"It's not finished until it's right."

"I know."

"You disappointed me tonight."

"I know."

"I'm sure you'll do better next time."

"I will."

"Goodnight, Janie."

"Goodnight, Daddy."

A peck on the forehead and he left the room.

* * *

"Ryan and I... we never have sex, Bobby. Ten times in three years."

"Why, Ray-Ray?"

"I'm used up."

"Then leave."

"Someday."

"When?"

"When I'm on that stage in those lights, pointe-shoes on with ribbons binding my ankles, my heart poured out for the world to see... then I'll know I can leave."

"Pointe shoes? But you're a tapping chorus girl."

"You know how you always say that you could never write for a newspaper because it's soulless?"

"Yes."

"You know how poetry moves you?"

"I do."

"Being a chorus girl is like writing for a newspaper. Your poetry is _my_ ballet."

"Leave him."

"I know."

" _Leave_ him."

"Bobby..." Sarah Huggins froze in her most dramatic display of acting prowess. Without any movement visible to the human eye, she pressed a solitary drop from her tear-duct, let it fall to her cheek (a trick she spent hours perfecting in the mirror), leaned forward from her seat and kissed Bill Carmel on the lips. "... _I know._ "

"Cut!" announced the steely man behind the camera.

Sarah cleared her throat and wiped away the tear. Bill slouched in his chair but remained transfixed.

The cameraman stepped between them with paperwork and a pen. "Alright, Miss Huggins," he said. "A few questions."

Sarah split her gaze between the man invading her personal space and the sliver of the director's eye visible from behind the imposing chest.

"Will you do nudity?" asked the man.

"I was told there wasn't any nudity in this film."

"Not yet, but we'd like to reserve the right to add or change scenes if—"

"No," she said. "I don't do nudity."

The man murmured something unintelligible and scribbled a note.

The director remained silent.

"Is your summer schedule open?" the man asked.

"If I get this role, nothing else will matter."

"I don't see any other film work listed here..."

"I've been in Michigan my whole life. But I've performed in several plays—"

"Theater and film are very different mediums, Miss Huggins."

Sarah tried not to stammer. "Of course. I uh..." From the corner of her eye, she noticed Bill Carmel's head slide into view from behind the cameraman's shirt. She glanced over just in time to catch the director's eye but he jerked his head back when they made contact. "I know the differences," she continued. "But I'm confident in my ability to make the transition."

"One last concern; the lead in this film is twenty-four, but it says here you're only twenty."

"I can mend a four-year gap. Twenty-four won't be a problem."

The man made another note, stepped aside, and finally revealed the director to Sarah. "Was that good for you, Bill?" he asked.

"It was good, Stan," he replied.

"Alrighty. Then let's move on." He turned back to Sarah. "Miss Huggins, thank you for—"

Sarah cut him off. "I'd like to ask Mr. Carmel a few questions if he doesn't mind."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," said Stan the cameraman. "But we have twenty more women outside—"

"Have a seat, Stan," Bill gently commanded. "We're running early."

"We're—"

"Have a seat," he said again, not so gently.

Stan sighed, pulled up a plastic seat, and plopped down.

Sarah didn't miss a beat. "Was the tear too much?" she asked.

"It doesn't matter," Bill replied.

"No?"

"We can scale back emotion later. Right now, it's good to see what you're capable of."

"And the kiss? I didn't know if I was supposed to do that..."

"The kiss was good. Most girls are too timid, but... some go for it."

"Be honest with me, Mr. Carmel. Do I have a chance at this role?"

"Most directors consider it rude to ask that question in an audition."

The circulation in Sarah's face waned and she felt her color fade. "Thank you for your time." She gathered her purse and jacket—

"I'm not most directors, Miss Huggins."

She released her belongings and stayed in her seat. "Call me Sarah."

"You're definitely in the running."

"Even without a background in film?"

"Stan Bright over there is a producer. He handles the money. His comment about film and theater may be true, but he's forgetting that this is a film _about_ theater. I find your acting background more than adequate."

"Thank you," she said.

Bill's leg bounced. "You're religious, aren't you?"

"Is that a problem?"

"Would God be disappointed?"

"In me?"

"If you get the part."

"I don't know what you—"

Bill leaned forward. "This is a story about an affair. It's about a married woman who sleeps with an eighteen-year-old boy. This woman is a seductress, she's a drug addict, and she's afraid. She takes Bobby's virginity. Bobby smokes weed and drops acid and then attacks the woman's abusive husband. You think you can become this disgusting character in this vile film and God will applaud you?"

Sarah felt warmth radiating from Bill's rugged face. She saw her own face mirrored in his grey eyes. "I may be 'religious,'" she said, "but I'm a person of this world, Bill. Your film is also of this world. But if that's how you see your character—if that's how you see your _story—_ I think you're blind to your own writing. You're right; I can't become the character you described. But this woman doesn't know those things about herself. She's not a seductress. _She's in desperate need of love._ She's not a drug addict! She's quitting next week... _for good this time_. And afraid? She's not afraid. She's a strong, confident woman in a terrible relationship with a man who's physically stronger. She doesn't have a chance to appear confident, so she seems scarred to the outside world. With a little help from Bobby, she can become the beautiful woman that she knows she is. From the synopsis, I gather this is a story of redemption; a story of ambition and of love and of noble pursuits. It's a story about pulling yourself out of the gutter, fighting harmful relationships, and overcoming all odds to be with the person you love. If you ignore the reality of the story, no matter how ungodly or vile that reality may be, you destroy the impact of the end redemption. So no, Bill. I don't think God will be disappointed in me."

Sarah lingered in that moment of palpable scrutiny with Bill's eyes darting between hers like an elementary-school staring contest, his nostrils flaring softly with every breath as if the first person to crack would lose the game.

He finally spoke. "Stan?"

"Yeah, Bill?"

"Send the others home."

The next series of interactions blurred in Sarah's mind. Somehow, she was standing; she was signing paperwork and hugging Bill. He pecked her on the cheek. He invited her to dinner. They would discuss the character. They would discuss the story. Stan lit a cig and handed over the full script.

"Read it tonight," Bill said. "I'll pick you up tomorrow at nine."

The following night, Bill was an hour late. When he finally arrived, his car smelled like a dizzying potpourri of cologne, lemon Pledge and cinnamon gum and Sarah had to blink her eyes to keep them from watering. But he was handsome, clean-shaven, and retained the same laid-back personality from yesterday's audition.

Whatever Sarah was expecting for a work-related dinner... a lobster house was not it. She would have felt underdressed in her jeans, blue blouse and high-tops, but Bill's "Journey" t-shirt put her mind at ease.

To Bill, there was no such thing as small talk. He was all business, all night. He talked about the project with confident gestures and pride. But the questions he asked made Sarah wonder if he was more insecure about his work than he let on.

"What did you think of the third act? Does it fall apart around page eighty-three? Did you ever get bored? What can I do to improve Ray-Ray's character?"

It was easy to be honest because the script was actually good. Bill paused after every compliment, staring blankly at his broken lobster tail as if he was clearing room in his mind to store the praise.

Sarah opted for pop instead of wine. Bill had three glasses of Merlot.

"Did you really work in a Chicago theater?" she asked.

"I worked as an intern to the director."

"Was there really a girl named Ray-Ray?"

"There was."

"Was she a ballerina?"

"The best. She taught me everything I know about dance."

"Did you really—" Sarah blushed.

"You can say it."

"—sleep with her?"

"She was my first. She was several firsts, actually."

"Several?"

"Ray-Ray gave me my first joint, inspired my first poem—"

"I see." Sarah looked down. "And the drug dealer?"

"His name was Charlie Arson in real life. Did a two-year stint in Stateville for burning down his bosses vacation home. I assumed 'Arson' was a nick-name until we became close; some coincidence, eh?"

Sarah forced a smile.

"When I found out that my parents died, Charlie hooked me up."

"How did they die?"

"Carbon-monoxide leak. Left me with a hell of an inheritance; twenty-grand, eighty acres of corn, and my childhood home."

"You own eighty acres of land?"

"Not anymore. I sold everything but the house and hill. That's what got me clean." Bill worked his fingers between the meat and red crust. "Nobody knows this stuff about me. Maybe it's that orb of spirituality that follows you, but I feel comfortable telling you things."

"The drugs," she said. "Do you—"

"I had to get clean to make this movie."

"You're remarkable. Most people never make that change."

By the end of the night, Sarah came to the realization that "discussing the character" was a façade; they were on a date. Bill dropped her off at home, walked her to the door and kissed her cheek. It was more than a peck this time, and it carried none of the pseudo-passion of their audition kiss. She wanted to kiss back, but considered her professionalism and refrained.

In an uncharacteristic regression into adolescence, she didn't wash that cheek for a week.

* * *

Sarah's bare feet searched for easy footing as William led her—arm in arm—up their hill. _The grass is always so soft here_ , she thought and took extra care to wiggle her toes in the blades.

The last two hours were spent at the dining-room table with chicken-scratch concept art, scribbled notes and loose bank statements creating a paper veneer over the wooden top. He showed her charts and financial information that explained how a 2.4 million dollar investment would pay itself off in less than nine years. Unbeknownst to their neighbors, the Carmels had the money, though most of it was buried in two, five and ten-year bonds. If Sarah approved the plan, divine intervention or not, they wouldn't live as comfortably as they did now.

William foresaw her concern and laid out a strategy to contact national theater troupes, dance competitions, orchestras and booking agents. He would gauge their interest in his theater, then ask them for an informal agreement to use his venue upon completion.

"Depending on the size of the show, concerts can pay tens of thousands," he said at the table. "Same with national dance competitions. Right now, the Sparkle Motion regionals are held in a high school gymnasium. Michigan is one of their worst venues. When they go to Indianapolis or San Antonio they pay upward of twenty grand."

William told her about Marvin Gibson. The architect would create professional concept art to excite potential clients in order to secure contracts.

"The biggest concerts go to Grand Rapids, Ann Arbor or Detroit, but we can grab some of their business. Plus, we'll draw tourists from the coast."

Will couldn't handle the tediousness of paperwork, so he grabbed Sarah by the wrist, pulled her into the dry spring night, and led her up the hill.

"I remember seeding this hill with Sir," he said as they continued their trek. "We spread seed three years in a row before it finally took."

"I remember when we moved in after the honeymoon," she said. "We spent summer nights on those rickety lawn chairs watching them build 'phase three' in the distance." She glanced to the Brandywine gate. "This is happening so quickly, Will."

"I think it's supposed to."

"Can't we wait a year? Maybe see how you feel after everything settles?"

"No."

When they reached the plateau, Sarah saw pink flags peppered throughout the moonlit hill. An orange ladder from the stables stood in the center.

William removed a flashlight from his pocket and let the beam guide his way from one marker to the next. He was nearly skipping. "This flag marks the back corner," he said standing on the edge closest to Boulevard Street. Sarah looked past him, at Best Buy, Wendy's, the Shell Station and Arby's—somewhere between was the piano bar, Kayla's studio and Hyde's store—all glowing red and yellow in brazen proclamations.

Will walked sixty feet toward the house. "The right-wing will be here." He walked a few more steps. "And the stage itself will start here." He ran back to Sarah.

She crossed her arms and tilted her head in an _I-can't-believe-I'm-buying-this_ gesture of love. "And the ladder?" she asked.

Will's grin could be seen from Lake Michigan. "Here," he said and helped her up the steps.

The eight-foot difference was astounding. Sarah stood atop the world, peeking over Everest and the Himalayas and with an extended arm she could touch the chalky dust of the moon.

"You're standing center stage overlooking a thousand people, some in seats, some on benches, and some on blankets in the grass. Is there anything like it?"

Nearly thirty years had passed since Sarah had witnessed this kind of excitement in her husband's eyes, and it terrified her. She remembered how they met. She remembered how it all fell apart. She remembered how he looked that night... _like a spider in a web, naked, tearing through that putrid house._

"Sarah? Is there anything like it?"

"No," she said, "I don't think there is."

Will sensed her concern. "I had another idea."

"Yeah?"

"Every Sunday, we'll hold two church services for free; one at sunrise, the other at sunset." Will offered his hand and Sarah stepped from the ladder.

She touched the scruff of his beard. "You usually don't let it get this long."

"I've been distracted." He brought his own hand to his face and covered hers.

Sarah knew how badly he wanted this... _and the idea came from God._

"You know the rules," she said. "You need to sleep. You need to eat. You need to go to church. Family comes first, bills come second, your ambition comes third. And if you get arrested—"

"—you're not bailing me out."

She kissed him. "This won't be like it was before?"

He kissed her back. "That was twenty-five years ago."

"Twenty-four."

"This will be different."

"Please," she said, "keep it quiet. Keep the voice and the vision between us for now. If people think you're doing this because God told you to—"

"I understand."

"Someday we'll own a successful theater and you can tell the world where your inspiration came from, okay?"

"Okay."

"I love you," she said.

"I know," he said.

* * *

Eleven days after the audition, Stan called Sarah Huggins and requested her presence at the office. The next afternoon, she followed his directions to the Brandywine subdivision.

It didn't seem like an appropriate place for an office building, but she turned at the front gate anyway. The number of completed homes could be counted on two hands, but piles of sand in half-acre plots indicated more were on the way. As she drove, the developing lots quickly gave way to a stretch of tilled dirt, and when the pavement turned to gravel, the dirt turned into unkept fields of dead corn. Rising from the wilted maize, Sarah saw the black slate roof of Bill's production office.

Before she even realized the "office" was merely a rundown mansion with a brown lawn, her senses were bombarded with a hippie-circus of moviemaking. A dozen vehicles were scattered across the grass. Two shirtless men carried a massive white square of fabric stretched taut on metal pipes. Orange extension cords snaked from the house to movie lights that were larger than anything used by a theater production. Another man—blond, Medusa dreads hanging to his back—ran a cord through the tilted posts of a broken corral and into a separate building with four abandoned horse stalls and ten women lined against its aluminum wall.

Sarah parked her car at the base of the driveway and held her purse close. The workers chatted and ignored the new girl while the house pumped at least three songs from different sources.

" _Hold the work!"_ The voice was deep with a synthetic clang.

Work ceased. Men and women emerged from the stables. Others poured from the house. Sarah spun around to find the source of the command.

"Up here, Sarah Huggins," said the mocking voice of God. The crew chuckled and she looked to the roof. Bill was seated between a man and a woman with his arms on his knees and a megaphone in his left hand. "It's good to see you," he said.

Sarah visored her eyes (never loosening the grip on her purse) and opened her mouth to shout "hello," but Bill cut her off.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I'd like to introduce to you to the star of our film: Miss Sarah Huggins performing as Ray-Ray!"

They clapped. Sarah—redder than her mother's tomato garden—bobbed a quick curtsy.

"Alright! Back to work!" Bill said, then handed the megaphone to his female accomplice and slid his feet down the slate.

Sarah winced when Bill swung to the lattice on the side of the house. He scurried down the wall, landed, and approached her with fingers tugging the cuffs of his unbuttoned orange blazer (and when his forthcoming monologue excited him, his arms spread the jacket like the wings of a hawk, revealing a white muscle-shirt and blond pit hair). "'Afternoon, beautiful," he said. "And welcome to the underground creative community of West Michigan." He kissed her on the lips for a split-second too long and Sarah could taste the tar.

"We need some photos with you," he said before she could ask, then grabbed her hand and led her to the front porch of the office. "Sheila's got brand new burlesque costumes and wants to do a fitting so we thought, why not grab some publicity stills too? The photographer's in the master bedroom. Got it all laid out with sexy red curtains and a piano bench; the whole theatrical shebang!"

Bill opened the front door and music attacked from every angle. A group of teenagers in tie-dyed shirts sat on couches and pillows in front of a blazing fireplace.

Sarah squeezed out her first words since her arrival: "Is that a bong?" She nodding to the pink pipe on the floor.

"Strictly a prop. Our PD's been going a little crazy with the paraphernalia. But this house is a drug-free zone!"

"Oh," Sarah said. "Neat."

Stan Bright was among the kids, so consumed in a notebook of work that he didn't seem to notice his back was being used as a pillow.

"You met Stan the other day," Bill said, voice raised above the music. "The developer of this community put me in touch with him last year. This guy paid his way through business school with a construction job and saved enough money to buy one of those little houses you saw on the way in. He's going places! On this project, he's the guy responsible for keeping the rest of us in check." Bill nudged Stan with his foot, "Hey!" Stan looked up from his work and Bill motioned to his open mouth. Stan rolled his eyes, reached in his pocket, pulled out a capsule, and tossed it to Bill who dropped it on his tongue and swallowed it dry.

"Tylenol," he said. "This crew gives me a headache."

"Are they all here for the movie?" Sarah asked.

"Not everyone. But they're all good people."

"Are they getting paid?"

"Of course. We're totally legit. You'll get paid for your work too. How does seventy-five for the hour sound?"

"You really don't have to do that."

"I've already put twenty grand into this project for equipment, personnel and pitch-package supplies. What we're doing with this film has never been done before. Movies don't get made outside of the Hollywood system. They're too expensive; too specialized. It's not an oil painting where you can spend a hundred bucks for the materials you need, then sit alone in your bedroom and practice for years until you become an artist. Film is the ultimate collaboration. And to break away from the system... to create an independently financed feature? Brilliant! Mark my words Sarah Huggins, it _will_ be brilliant."

He started up the stairs. Sarah watched her footing around stacks of notecards, sewing needles, tangled webs of discarded thread, and more thick cords weaving through the banisters.

"Who's backing this film?" she asked.

"Right now, I am. But we're in talks with several affluent millionaires who might consider investing."

"So your film doesn't have funding yet?"

"It has my money. That's why I finally gave in to Jaxon's offer; two-mill for eighty acres."

"Seems risky."

By the time they reached the top step, the music and clatter had faded. "You're too practical, beautiful. This is art. You and I do the real work and let Stan think of the business crap. We're using this screen test as part of the pitch-package we're presenting to investors on Friday. Before you know it, we'll have the funds, and the movie'll soar!" Bill shot his hand into the air (reminding Sarah of a Heil-Hitler), then grabbed the molding of the guest-room door and twirled inside. "Sheila? Baby! How are the costumes? I'd like you to meet Sarah. Sarah, this is Sheila. You ladies have fun and let me know when we're ready for the pics."

He was gone before either woman could answer, but his voice still echoed through the hallway. "Stan? Stanley Bright? Where's my fucking Tylenol!"

Sheila looked at Sarah and shrugged.

The costumes were gorgeous, the photo shoot was professional, and Stan paid Sarah eighty dollars in cash including "five extra for gas."

Exactly sixty minutes after Bill promised Sarah an hour of work, he accompanied her to her car. "I'm sorry about the insanity," he said. "Things can get a little crazy around here."

"I can imagine." Sarah straightened his hair. "When do you need me again?"

"I'm busy until Friday's pitch. We'll get together after that." Bill leaned against her car.

"I'll be looking forward to it." Sarah pushed against Bill, used his blazer to pull herself the extra inch to his lips, and kissed him.

"Me too, beautiful."

She fished her keys from her purse. "I taste cigarette on your breath. You're clean. Right?"

"I might smoke the occasional cigar. And when I'm out with a pretty girl, I sometimes drink cheap Merlot." He grinned. "But that's it."

"Nothing else? No drugs?"

"Not since the bad-old-days."

She kissed him again.

"Wish me luck on Friday?" he said.

"God bless you on Friday," she said, then opened the door and slid inside. "I'll see you next week, Mr. Director."

By Friday evening, Bill Carmel and Stan Bright had their money. Investor Number Two happened to spend his spare time as an amateur author and told Bill that if the movie's director had as much grace as the writer, he would gladly support it. When Bill clarified that he was both the writer _and_ the director, the man signed an agreement for two-and-a-half million dollars.

When Bill arrived home, Sarah was the first person he called.

* * *

It only took five words for Will to convince Hyde to join him. "I'm quitting tonight. Wanna go?"

Will tugged the bottom of his open blazer. He sported his fedora for the last time. It was early May, but Boulevard Street was already littered with bar-hoppers like a mid-July night.

Stack Mattoon was checking IDs outside Big Blue's. Will nodded to the beefy bouncer; he nodded back and waved them in.

The hair on Will's arm stood tall with a single glance around the bar. "This place is a powder-keg," he said.

It was impossible to walk to Marsh's office without brushing against a half-dozen patrons. Starting at the bar, there was Stanley Bright drinking the cheapest beer on tap. To the right of the office door was a band of men howling and buying beers for their soon-to-be-married buddy, tipping the waitresses' cleavage and gladly accepting playful slaps. In the back corner was a group of businessmen (the same from Easter Sunday?) chatting quietly, probably about the day's nine-to-five banality. A birthday bash came next; the twenty-one-year-old boy wore a fedora similar to Will's. He was surrounded by six friends pounding their fists on the table and chanting, "Drink motha fucka, drink motha fucka, drink motha fucka, drink!" The boy dropped a shot of Vodka in his beer and downed the depth-charge to the cheers of his comrades. Will suspected the boy was one drink away from slipping on his own puddle of vomit and he saw a bit of Billy not-too-deep beneath the surface. In the center of the room, three tables had been pushed together for a bachelorette party. The bride-to-be wore a wedding dress and tiara and her skin was covered from face to arms to chest to legs with boys names in black magic marker. The girls were the calmest group in the room but their eyes never left the bachelor party in the shadows.

"I need you tonight, Will. It's Friday!" Marsh pointed out the open office door. "I've got three parties! They're bar hoppin' but I'd like 'em to crash here. For that to happen I need entertainment. Just finish your shift tonight and I'll double your pay."

"Not anymore," Will said, rapping his fingers on the desk. "I already spoke with Duane and he'll finish off the night."

"We love you here, Will. You're easy-going and the best damn piano player I've ever met. If it's a raise you want, you've got it."

"It's not about that."

"I'll let you play your songs. Two... _three_ songs per night. You write 'em and you play 'em here."

"Fact is, Marsh, I just don't need the money."

"You never needed the money. What's going to be your outlet if you leave? I know William Carmel... If you're not playing my piano, it's only a matter of time—"

"This was never an outlet. You've been good to me." Will removed his hat and placed it on Marsh's desk. "I'll stop by sometime."

Marsh snatched the fedora and frisbeed it across the room.

(Live the life you've imagined!)

Will joined Hyde outside the office door. "Sit with me," he said. He meandered to the bar, sighed hard and plopped on the stool. He cocked his head and took in the drone of the crowd and Duane's easy melody.

"Can I buy you a Coke?" Hyde asked, brushing the stool for crumbs until it was clean enough to sit.

"Shot of Gin, please Milly." Will said as if Hyde didn't exist.

"No-can-do, Mr. Carmel."

"Call me that again, Milly, and I'll tell everybody your real name. Now pour me a gin."

"Sorry Will, you told me never to—"

"That was before you knew how to mix a drink. Hundred proof. Please."

Milly hesitated, then said, "Yes sir," and grabbed a clear bottle from the rack without looking, tossed it in the air, caught it, and poured Will's drink.

"Are you sure?" Hyde said. "Shouldn't you call a sponsor or something?"

"Never had one." Will rolled the base of the glass on the table. _(Live the life you've imagined!)_ "Do you believe in God, Hyde?"

"What?"

"Do you believe in God?"

"What do you mean?"

"What else could I possibly mean?"

"Why are you asking?"

"Wrong answer."

"Yeah. Of course I do."

"Why didn't you say that the first time I asked?"

"I don't—"

"Forget it." Will pushed the shot aside.

"I thought I told you never to serve me, Mill. Bad girl."

"You don't want it?"

"Don't need it."

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever you say, Mr. William."

(Follow your dreams! Follow your dreams! Follow your dreams!)

Will pushed back the stool, patted Hyde on the shoulder, took two easy steps toward the piano, and grabbed the microphone from Duane.

* * *

Three-thousand dollars was spent on drinks the night William and Hyde strolled in. Some would say it started when he took the mic; some would say it started the moment he entered the room. Will would say he was merely the spark that lit the powder-keg; that it was all part of God's plan.

In the week after The Incident, Will found himself trying to suffocate that whispering— _screaming_ —voice. At home, in the supermarket, at work, with Hyde, she would attack him in haunting repetition and when she spoke, Will managed to force his concentration elsewhere, drowning that angel in the deepest recesses of subconscious.

But it only made her stronger.

"Most of you know me," he began and the bar fell reverent. "But for those who don't, I'm Will. I've been an entertainer at Big Blue's for fourteen years."

"We love you, Will!" It was Sue Pelton, glass raised.

"Thank's Sue. Who else..." Will scanned the room. "Stanley Bright, not the brightest crayon in the box—"

Stan didn't respond, but took a swig of his beer and raised his middle finger.

"—but a decent enough friend in difficult times. Gentlemen at the bar," They didn't look up. "I don't know your names and you never request songs, but I see you in here from time to time. Thanks for that."

Marsh stepped from his office to see why his customers were quiet.

Will nodded. "I'll be out of your hair in a minute, Marsh."

He scratched his chin. "Take your time, Will."

Hyde wondered if Will would mention him, but his expectations were met with a long uncomfortable moment of silence. In the stillness, the businessmen decided that the speech was over and resumed their chat.

Will ran his fingers through his hair. He remembered his wife's request, but _(live the life you imagined!)_ attacked again. With a single mental stomp, the voice was gone. "I'm done..." he said. "I'm done playing songs here..." He paused and glanced around the room. _Just say goodbye and leave_ , he thought. But the words wouldn't come.

Hyde's stomach tightened; _he always knew his empathy was over-active_. As a child, he begged his mother to leave the circus at the Van Andel Arena because a performer took a misstep on the high wire and crashed in the net. Hyde shared her embarrassment as she climbed the pole to reattempt her walk. Now he was watching Will choke in front of fifty people and it was making him sick.

Will regained his confidence. "I'm quitting tonight. I'm quitting and... and I won't be working here anymore." _Sarah will understand,_ he thought. _She needs to understand._ But he bottled the urge.

The bachelorettes exchanged glances and hid their smiles behind drinks. Jesse served the birthday boy a White Russian and the chant began again. "Drink, motha fucka..."

They attacked together, from all sides of William's brain; from the cartilage in his pinky-toes to the trampled pit of his stomach and every hair-covered inch of his epidermis _it came loud and it came clear_ , that same sensuous voice multiplied a thousand times over as if the angels declaring Christ's birth sang inside him, rising through his gut until they reached the frontal lobe of his brain, passed through his speech control center and out his mouth. "I want to tell you a story!" he said, startling himself with his new authority. "I want to tell you a parable."

If Will stopped here, the Brandywine neighborhood might have continued its peaceful existence as another block of houses in a world filled with blocks of houses. The residents would have kept to themselves. Will's worries would have remained his own. But he didn't stop. And everything would change.

"I'm sure most of you know what a prophet is. There's Isaiah and Jeremiah and Daniel... Christian prophets who foretold events and became the collective mouthpiece of God. In Islam, Muhammad is the Prophet with a capitol 'P.' He was considered 'an agent of divine action.'" Will used his trademark air-quotes. "There's Joseph Smith from the Mormon religion. I read the Harry Potter books to my daughter at bedtime over the last three years; there's a character named Sybill Trelawney who is also—"

"Are you claiming to be a prophet, William Carmel?" asked Morgan Demfield who Will didn't recognize until now. It was her first time at Big Blue's and she was only there for the music.

"I've been struggling with that question all week, but yes, ma'am, I believe I am."

"And what is it that God told you?"

Will cleared his throat and raised his voice. "God told me to build a theater on the hill behind this building."

Scattered applause arose. The bachelorettes cheered; three of the girls had a new crush on the sweating oracle.

Hyde's unease grew thicker in the back of his throat.

"I had a vision. I heard the voice of an angel! I was given detailed instructions on how to build—"

"Hey asshole!" It was Stan. "Duane still works here and he's singing us songs. Get out of his way and let the man play."

The businessmen refocused on Will.

"You want music?" Will said.

"Yeah, Billy, I do!"

"Who here wants music?"

The fellowship cheered. A small clump of the bachelor party broke from the rest like a splitting cell and inevitably slunk toward the center of the room where the bachelorettes pretended not to notice. The birthday boy tipped over and his friends howled so hard they nearly fell out of their seats.

"They want music!" Will said. "Play 'em a song, Duane."

"What song can I do you for, Will?"

"How about some Billy Joel, Duane?"

"How about Piano Man?"

"Piano Man it is."

As the melody began, Hyde made the decision to fully accept the accelerating strangeness of the night. He saw Will's discarded shot of Gin, grabbed it, gulped it, and tasted real liquor for the first time in his life. The syrup went down harder than he imagined, but after his initial regret it settled comfortably inside him and he egged on his friend with the rest.

With one hand planted firmly on the top of the piano, Will hoisted himself up—consecrating the instrument with his first step—and stood tall above Duane's dancing fingers and the crowd's tilted heads.

Duane began to sing.

The bride and her ladies pushed their chairs aside and filled the empty space around the piano. They sang along—eyes on Will—as the bachelors cozied up from behind.

"I was in my shed when she spoke to me! Minding my own business, an angel called me by name and said, 'William! Follow your dreams! Build a stage for the world to see!"

"You were drunk!"

"No, my friend!"

"You were high!"

"I was sober and clean! The voice of the angel was clear! She told me to follow my dreams; to build a stage on that hill and it will be for _everyone_!" Will punctuated the last word with a fist in the air and nearly hitting the ceiling.

A choir of businessmen joined Duane for the chorus, suit-coats on chair-backs and mugs raised, swaying to-and-fro with the music.

"This stage will not be normal," William said. "It will be God's personal throne!"

The cheers grew louder.

Hyde scrambled his hand through his pocket, fished out the Bluetooth headset and pushed it into his ear. _He had to call Kay._

"You'll never guess what Will's doing... Sorry, I know you were asleep... No I'm at the bar... At Big Blue's just over the hill... No, we walked."

Baylee was five-six in ripped blue jeans with stringy shotgun holes that revealed the delicate straps of a purple thong. She was only eighteen, but her fake I.D. worked every time. She nestled into the seat beside Hyde and leaned forward, resting her breast against his forearm. "My friends don't think I can get you to buy me a drink."

"Hold on," Hyde said then turned to the girl. "Give me a sec," he whispered, then swiveled, put his head down, and went back to his wife. "He's standing on the piano and telling everyone he heard voices... No, they're all watching him. It's crazy in here. Can you hear that?" Hyde pulled the headset from his ear and held it to Will's escalating speech.

Baylee wrapped her arm around Hyde's neck. He shied away and cupped his mouth to direct his speech to the headset. "I know! I can't either. I have no idea what to do... No I can't stop him, especially not now!"

The girl's fingers climbed his neck and swirled his crisp hair. Hyde swatted her hand, turned to her, and mouthed _"no."_

"I have to go... No, I need to go... Uh huh... Yeah you too." Hyde clicked off the device.

"Hi there," said the girl. "I'm Baylee. Wanna buy me a drink?"

Will was beginning to feel the effects of the Gin. A single shot would have been nothing a couple decades ago—

_But he didn't take the shot._ Somehow, in all the excitement... he forgot that he refused it.

Morgan called out, "And what do we do if what you say doesn't happen? The good book says you should be put to death!"

"Ma'am, if there's not an amphitheater built on that hill by this time next year, you can tie me to the Brandywine front gate and throw stones until I'm dead."

More cheers. Morgan was satisfied. The bachelorettes' raised their arms, reaching for William like he was The King.

Duane continued Piano Man. The back-up singers were loud and clear.

Will tapped his loafers and the marker-covered bride shouted over the music, "I've been saving this spot for someone special!" She pulled down the front of her pseudo-wedding dress and revealed her nipple and a clear patch of skin.

He kneeled. "I'm happily married, darling, so I can't fill that spot. But you're beautiful! You have a good day tomorrow, and you love him hard, okay?"

She pulled up her dress and smiled. "I will!"

"Duane!" Will shouted, "Hit the pedal!"

Duane smiled with his crooked teeth and his eyes dilated in the darkness. His foot came down hard on the bright red pedal and William's soapbox began to spin.

"I've kept it to myself for a week!" Will said, walking in circles on the twisting piano. "It's been bubbling from inside, boiling, rising to the surface and I can't contain it anymore! Damn me for keeping such a marvelous event quiet. _Damn me_ for waiting five nights to herald this news to the world!"

Baylee lifted her leg over Hyde's. "My friends'll pay me thirty bucks if I convince you to buy me a drink. I'll give you ten."

Hyde stiffened and readjusted his seat. "I'm married. That was my wife on the phone."

"Fifteen. Twenty if you lick my ear."

The band of birthday boys left their friend at the table, eyes drifting closed then snapping back open. They chanted for Will. "Preach motha fucka, preach motha fucka, preach!"

"The stage will showcase not just _our_ talent, but the world's talent! We'll have concerts and plays and competitions! People will come from all parts of the country, and we will stand united!"

Duane sang the chorus. Smoke from the fog machine clogged the room. A boy from the birthday party threw a fist at a boy from the bachelor party over an unwelcome pickup attempt, and Will raised his voice above the ensuing brawl.

Marsh was happy with the turnout and fresh excitement, but the fight was too much. Knees thrashed, girls screamed, the birthday boy laid face up on the bench... and Will was spurring them on. Marsh walked swiftly to the twirling prophet and pointed to the ground. The crowd booed his decision (the bachelorettes were loudest), but he persisted. "Will, that's enough! Duane, stop playing!"

Duane smiled with teeth like antique piano keys, but he didn't quit.

Will shouted for everyone to hear, "Give me until the end of the song, Marsh. I'll buy a round for the room."

"Preach motha fucka preach!"

Cheers and applause hailed Will's offer, and Marsh backed down at the promise of another grand worth of drinks.

Jesse and Milly tossed glasses in rows across the bar and pulled bottles of vodka over them. Hyde grabbed two drinks before they could be served and handed one to Baylee. "Does this count?"

She downed her drink and attached her lips to Hyde's ear lobe. He pushed her away, "Whoa, little girl. I said I'm married."

Marsh turned his attention to the fight and called Stack inside to break it up. Jesse and Milly made the rounds with platters balanced on their palms.

Morgan shook her head. She felt guilty for standing in this room. _Impure._ Where was William's angel tonight? Was she locked outside? There were demons circling the bar, hiding in the mist with gnashing teeth and yellow eyes. She could feel their presence with every verse of the song.

A singing business man pulled a chair beneath a blue spotlight, hopped up, and twisted the beam to bathe Will in sapphire.

"When I heard the voices, I didn't believe it. When I saw the vision, I did! Doubt is powerful! But faith is stronger! Do I hear an amen?"

"Amen, brother William!"

"There will be a stage on that hill! Do I hear a hallelujah?"

The bridesmaids threw up their hands. "Hallelujah brother Will!"

"Do you like my idea, ladies?"

"We love it!"

"Will you visit me when the vision becomes real?"

The bride responded, "We don't live around here, but we love you! Of course we'll visit!"

"Bring your husband!" he said.

"I will!"

The bachelors held the girls' waists and began grinding their pelvises. The room crooned the final verse. The businessmen snapped their thumbs on lighters and lit their vodka. Dancing orange tongues briefly illuminating their faces, and Morgan Demfield left.

Will concluded his speech. "As you leave here tonight, I want each and every one of you to look to the hill behind this building, through the trees and the shadow of the knoll, and I want you to imagine a monument that will bring the city together." A final cheer and Duane's last rift brought Will to the floor. "I love you all!" he said and tossed the mic back to Duane.

The brawlers were booted. The birthday boy finally vomited. Hyde began to feel the effects of two drinks and attempted to lick Baylee's scrawled screen name from his palm. He wiggled free of the girl, grabbed Will's hand and pulled him toward the exit. Sickly applause ushered the men into the night.

William's presence resonated in Big Blue's Piano Bar for the remainder of the evening. Others would enter, feel the lingering aura of chaos, and turn back. At three AM, Marsh—aided by Jesse and Stack—swept the remaining habitués to the sidewalk while Duane leaned against the brick, lit a cigarette, and relaxed.

On the way up the hill with his heart thumping and Hyde lagging behind; concealed in the back of his mind, she whispered it again. _(Follow your dreams,)_ she said.

(Follow your dreams...)

* * *

Kayla was awake and frightened when Hyde returned home. He calmed her down and tucked her back in bed.

In the living room, he stared through his bay windows at the moonlit dandelions in Will's unkempt front yard. The Carmels had a privileged position outside the neighborhood-covenant restrictions; they mowed their lawn when and how they wanted. Black shingles trapped twigs and leaves in folds of tar forming the crooked monolith of the Carmel's roof. The house stood ten feet taller than the other homes and was visible from the front gate.

_William is the town's sheepdog,_ Hyde thought. _He's the shepherd, here from the beginning and always watching._

But Hyde was watching now. The stable light flipped on and he saw his friend's shadow bobbing back and forth in the plastic window as it always did when Will tinkered with his piano.

The movement stopped. Will's silhouette remained still with his head tilted.

Hyde sipped coffee from a mug Kayla painted for him at the ceramic shop in the mall. _"XOXO I love my Hydey-Wydey"_ was painted on the side with fingerprint hearts and squiggled lines punctuating the words. That was six years ago. Third date. He puffed away the steam and took another sip. The mug seemed chintzy in his hand, though his fingers fit comfortably in the handle. He noticed the scribbled screen name on his palm and wondered if his wife noticed when he put her to bed. He read the name again, then licked his hand and smeared it away.

Ten minutes later the mug held the last tepid inch of brew.

Will's shadow still wasn't moving. Hyde watched with growing curiosity. _Why wasn't he working? Did he fall asleep upright?_

The answer hit Hyde like a railroad spike in his throat and a cinderblock in his chest; William wasn't asleep... _he was waiting for the voice._

**THREE - Whitaker and Reid**

Before Chicago—before Ray-Ray, Charlie Arson, and the abyssal spiral—there was the Carmel house at the base of the hill. The ring of trees didn't exist back then and there were no picket-fence borders, only house, hill and the endless horizon of golden maize.

Boulevard street was called Prospect Avenue in those days and served as the only link between Interstate-131 and the freshly tapped agricultural land. The stones, dust, and divots made it a treacherous bike path, but the road was as straight as a cornstalk. In 1955, the only business on Prospect was Marion Hill's Shoppe 'n Fill, a convenience store and gas pump. Twenty years later, the tiny shop would serve as William's go-to joint for liquor and munchies, but in the era of Eisenhower and "duck and cover," it was a symbol of innocence and small-town pride. The Gilbarco gas pump was hand-washed daily until the gleam of red chrome was visible from the street.

Bev and Sir were not readers. They weren't illiterate either, but apart from the phonebook and Billy's _National Geographic_ s, books were scarce around the house. The few times Billy saw his parents reading, the books seemed heavy in their hands and they both squinted as if they needed glasses. "Carmels and books is like oil and vinegar," Sir would say with his best hillbilly impression. They encouraged Billy when he took up reading outside of school, but didn't have the means to spend as much as he read. The nearest library was twenty miles away and his school spent more money on rat traps than books.

Luckily, the Marion Hill Shoppe 'n Fill kept a tall wooden spindle filled with dozens of used books for only a quarter apiece. The station was hardly within walking distance from the Carmel home—Billy could either scale the hill or ride his new bike around it—but once a week he took an hour off work to trade his completed book for a new one.

One Tuesday, Billy returned a book titled _The Indian Way_ and perused the spindle for an adventure or serial; but a different book caught his eye that afternoon. It had a hard cover. The title was small with capital letters. It was called "A Pictorial History of American Theater 1900-1950." It didn't have a picture on the cover, but the inside was filled with black-and-white images of a world that existed well outside the cornfields of home and the wood chips of school. It was fifty cents; twenty-five more than Billy would have after selling "The Indian Way." He scrounged his overalls' pockets, but if he was carrying an extra quarter, he woulda known.

Little Billy's internal debate over whether or not to switch the price tags brought him to and from the candy display where he pretended to decide between the Tootsie Rolls and Juicy Fruit. The price tags were small green circles with legibly handwritten prices in the center. Whoever placed the tags did it carefully, always in the corner about an inch from the top and an inch from the right. Billy became intimately aware of the position of these tags after months of peeling them off, placing them on the inside of the cover, then pressing them firmly in the original spot for his weekly exchange. The ritual was rather unnecessary, but he figured it saved the owner some extra work with every trade, and the practice could be useful now.

The tag marked "50¢" was already peeling off the theater book; the half circle unhinged and drooping toward him, practically screaming _"Peel me off, Billy! Just grab my ear and peel me off!"_ After one more round trip to the candy rack, he deftly swapped the fifty-cent tag for a twenty-five-cent tag.

It took him a full minute, but he finally worked up the nerve to approach the counter.

"That's a heftier book than your usual," said the man behind the counter. Billy never learned his name, though they conversed about books and the weather once a week.

"I'm getting older. I can handle it."

"Might not be too interesting to a nine-year-old."

"I'm gonna be eleven in five months."

"Well damn. Why am I talkin' down to a nearly eleven-year-old? That's a hardcover, tiger. It'll be fifty cents."

Billy slid the book across the counter, price tag up. "It says twenty-five cents, sir."

"Twenty-five? That must've been a mistake." He took the book and turned it over in his hands. "I price these damn things myself..." his voice trailed off and he set the book back on the counter. "Well kiddo, it was my mistake, so you get the book for half off. Looks like it's your lucky day."

Billy smiled. His insides ached. "Thank you, sir."

The guilt had worn off by that evening, and Billy read the book in bed. It had lots of words he didn't understand, and the only pictures were either of women he didn't recognize or technical drawings of theaters. Nevertheless, it consumed him and filled his mind with the the glamor of the stage and screen.

After hours of pouring over the pages, the heroes in Billy's TV shows were no longer characters; _they were actors looking for work._ The wolf-man's gnarled fur had a zipper! Someone _wrote_ the words that came from the character's lips.

When Billy showed the book to his mother, Bev patted his hair, scratched the back of his neck, and said, "You dream big, Billy. And do what you love."

Urban sprawl moved in like a set of adult teeth, painfully pushing out the crooked shops with cleaner, more reliable buildings. The Shoppe 'n Fill survived several reincarnations but was inevitably replaced by a Shell station. The faceless owners installed eight new pumps but saved the original red Gilbarco pump as a souvenir of a different time.

Those untainted memories of adolescence became an epoch William referred to as "Before Ray-Ray." They came and went more gracefully than the narcotic-blurred memories of the late seventies, and he visited them often. They came now, standing atop his hill with the morning sun on his back and his world spread before him. It was summer in West Michigan and nostalgia was being written in the backyards of the Brandywine homes. There were slides and swing-sets, light blue kiddie pools, and birthday parties with blow-up moon-bounces. From the top of the hill, the town was a hodgepodge of monochromatic homes with bright backyard toys like sprinkles on an ice cream cone.

Will watched as a yellow Hummer pulled into his driveway. Two men in suits stepped out; one carried a computer and a mess of cords, the other carried a briefcase. The men rang his doorbell and peered inside his windows. He watched as the shorter man, Jaxon Silverman, removed a piece of paper stapled to the front door and read it.

Will tucked away his childhood memories and started down the hill to greet the enemy.

* * *

If Jaxon Silverman was simply the head developer of the Brandywine subdivision, Will may have been able to tolerate him. But Jaxon Silverman was more than that. He wanted to be involved. He had a chair on the Association. He wrote the Covenants. He enforced the Covenants. Jaxon was the bulldozers that toppled the Joad's home in _The Grapes of Wrath_. He was the discouraging Dad in teenage sports movies. He was the hunter who shot Bambi's mom.

The man was fifty. His eyes were small like black saltwater pearls and the corners of his mouth were perpetually pulled up in a retarded-dolphin smile, even when he was pissed. A receding hairline gave Jaxon a wet football field for a forehead. The hair-loss was fairly recent; when Will met the man in the mid eighties, he sported a flock-of-seagulls cut with a suit and tie.

Will climbed the trio of steps to his own porch, took Jaxon's extended hand, and was reminded of the tight, insincere handshake of a used-mattress salesman.

"William Carmel, Brandywine's first resident!" _Jaxon still knew how to get under his skin._ "It's been too long."

Stan Bright stood behind Jax with an armful of computer cables. Silverman & Binder's favorite construction worker always looked uncomfortable in a suit and tie.

"Nice car," Will said, nodding toward the yellow Hummer in his driveway. "You couldn't walk three blocks?"

"Not with all the equipment. Besides, Stanley's knee has been bothering him again, isn't that right Stan?"

He nodded.

"What was the paper you pulled from my door?"

Jaxon blushed; the only real expression Will expected to see today. "I didn't want to embarrass you, so I tore it down." Jaxon removed the folded sheet from his back pocket. "It appears to be an online article about delirium."

Will snatched it and skimmed the first line: " _A person with delirium has little in the way of rational consciousness..."_ He crumpled the article and turned back to Jaxon. "Why are you here?"

"The whole company wanted to meet with you in the board room, but since you refused our invitations I thought it'd be nice if Stan and I dropped by for a visit; just old friends chatting without all the suits." Jaxon winked as if he wasn't also wearing a suit. "I think it's fascinating; we're the original three! Brandywine residents since the very beginning. The rest may come and go, but Will, Jax and Stan will be a part of this community forever."

Will gagged on his own vomit. "I guess I should invite you in," he said.

"That would be lovely. How's the wife? Is she home?"

"No."

"We can come back later if you think—"

"Now is fine." Will motioned to the door.

Jaxon grabbed the handle and it opened with a screaming creak. "I see the ol' homestead is getting a bit rusty." He closed and reopened the door, slower this time so the scream became a drawn out cry.

"It's called 'character', Jax. You could learn a few things from that door."

The living room was dim with the door open; nearly black when it shut. The curtains were still closed from a week of articles taped to the windows. Sarah made it clear that if Janie saw an article about false prophets hanging eerily from a window pane, she would blame William's infamous piano-bar rant and the stage would be ka-put.

Will sat in his gunmetal-grey Flexsteel sofa. It was a seventies shade of brown when his parents bought it thirty-five years ago, but an elegant refurbishment updated the style significantly. He didn't offer the men a seat.

"Do you mind if we set up a little presentation?" Jaxon asked.

Will gestured _"have at it"_ and smiled his most sarcastic smile.

Stanley popped out the legs on the tripod, balanced the contraption in front of the couch, then grappled a long cylinder with his calloused hands and pulled the end until it became a bumbling sheet of plastic. (A ping of nostalgia lifted in Will at the sight of the screen; part of him expected the suited-duo to remove an old sixteen-millimeter projector. He could almost smell the bulb and heated acetate.) Stan hung the screen on a hook at the top of the tripod and plugged in the power to the computer and digital projector. The speakers were last; tiny round gadgets that looked like baby droids from _Star Wars_. They were equipped with black, plastic antennas in the center of their heads and little feet that made them easy to position. Stanley held them between his fingers as if they would shatter with the slightest pinch and hid them behind the lamps on the side tables.

"Back in my day," William said, "we had wires on our speakers."

"I narrated this video myself," Jaxon said as Stanley aligned the projected blue square on the screen. "We'll hire a local celebrity for the final video, but we rushed so we could present it to you now."

"Why hurry?" Will asked.

"We'll talk about that after the video." Jax looked at Stan. "Play it."

The video came to life in a colorful fifty-inch display. The wireless speakers played a crisp instrumental ditty. "Sounds like I've been put on hold," Will said and laughed at his own joke.

The hill— _his hill_ —appeared before the men, now seated in a row on the sofa. Sure enough, Jaxon's voice provided the narration. _"Imagine, if you will, a divine piece of property as a blank canvas waiting to be filled. Imagine that a company with a history of elegance and ingenuity obtained that canvas to create true perfection. At Silverman and Binder, we have that dream."_ The shots of the empty hill faded into digital renderings of homes; gorgeous homes— _on his hill_ —wider and taller than anything currently in the subdivision. _"Welcome to Brandywine Gardens."_

Jaxon sat on the edge of the sofa, hands in his lap, mouthing his own words. _"The new addition will sit atop the undeveloped hill on the north-west corner of the Brandywine Subdivision. Every home in Brandywine Garden's will have an in-ground pool and spa, as well as full access to a plethora of exclusive and elite amenities."_ The video showed another digital model; a gazebo with hanging baskets of geraniums beside a quaint river. The image cross-dissolved to an exercise facility, then to a backyard pool overlooking Boulevard. _"The interior of the homes will bring luxury to a new level with fully customizable granite countertops, owner's choice of wood or carpet floors, vaulted ceilings, and bay windows that provide spectacular views of this spectacular development."_

"Spectacular," Will muttered.

The video concluded, _"Thank you, William Carmel, for helping us turn our dream into reality,"_ then ended with an arial sketch of the entire Brandywine development. Two dozen houses were penciled on the hill. The Carmel home was gone.

"What do you think?" Jaxon asked.

"You planned this whole thing behind my back? You guys are quick."

"We were going to approach you this August, but your recent _situation_ prompted immediate action. We've had such a good relationship with the Carmel family in the past and we wanted to approach you with our vision to... to _impress_ you."

"You assumed I'd sell."

"We've been through this before, Will. You've always been open to negotiations. We didn't—"

"You had the opportunity to buy the hill with the rest of my property, remember Jax? You turned it down."

"Nobody expected Brandywine to be such a success! We're a large-scale development now. We exceeded our own expectations! We saw certain limitations with the hill before, but now we feel we can turn it into something specta—"

"Spectacular, I know."

"I'm not blind to the success you helped me achieve in the past, Will. If you didn't sell us that land when you did, 'Jaxon Silverman' wouldn't exist. Your sale, twenty-eight years ago, made many people very happy. You provided them—myself included—with a place to raise their children."

"If this deal goes through, do you get one of those million-dollar homes?" Will asked.

"That's not my motivation, Will. I want to—"

"You'll need a variance on the land."

"Paperwork's already in. It won't be a problem." Jaxon took a breath and exhaled loudly. "Listen. We know things have changed for you. But you're still the same open-minded person you've always been. We have an offer."

"The answer is no."

"You should consult your wife."

"We're on the same page."

"You're confident in what you heard, Will?"

"And saw. Yes."

"So confident that you won't consider our—"

"Yes."

"You can't possibly make your money back on this venture."

"Then it will be the ultimate tithe."

"You know we won't let you bring traffic down Brandywine."

"Really?" William extended the "e" sound into a sarcastic drawl.

"There's a ten o'clock noise curfew. Brandywine Covenant Handbook, page eight. I believe Stan just mailed you a copy—"

"You really don't think much of me, do you Jax?"

"I hear your voice was quoting Thoreu."

"We're not here to talk about what I heard."

"I heard it was quite the experience. Most of Brandywine—"

"You don't stop, do you?"

"I came here to make an offer." Jaxon pulled out a manila envelope and dropped it on the coffee table. "We're offering 1.6 million for your property."

"I said no."

"And a home in the new Brandywine Gardens—"

"I said no."

"—and I might remind you that selling your home would provide a simple solution to our other problem."

"And what is our 'other problem?'" Will already knew.

"The contract."

He didn't blink. _The fucking contract._

"This offer will be on the table until you break ground. After that happens—after a shovel hits the dirt on that hill—the offer will be cut in half. If you start the project and fail, there's no going back."

"It won't fail."

"I'll leave the paperwork. If you have any questions, you have my number."

Stanley went to work packing the electronics. William realized the man hadn't spoken a word since he arrived. Jax probably gave him orders to keep his mouth shut.

The men opened the door and walked into the afternoon sun. Jaxon squinted, stretched his arms, and smiled. "Smells like cut grass and chlorine. I love summer." Jaxon let his arms fall to his side.

"Mm."

"Speaking of grass, your new neighbor seems to be neglecting his."

"Lay off Hyde. He cut it last month."

"Of course, of course. He sold me the projector and speakers at cost. He earned himself a break."

Will watched Stanley load the Hummer as a woodpecker's thumps emerged from the forest. He cracked his knuckles and said, "This ends here. Do not approach Sarah. I am responsible for my families financial decisions. I'll tell her about your offer, but this is the beginning and end for you and your company's 'vision.' Tell Silverman and Binder to move on to new ventures. This path is closed."

Jaxon called to Stan, "Ready to roll?"

Stan nodded.

"We'll talk again," Jaxon said.

"I don't doubt it," Will replied.

* * *

"Jax stopped by today and made an offer on our land."

"How much?"

"1.6 million and a new house."

"What did you tell him?"

"No."

"Okay."

"Is that okay?"

"Yes. It's okay."

"I have another meeting with Marvin... the architect—"

"I know who Marvin is."

"That's tomorrow after Janie's first day with Kay."

"I'm excited for her."

"Me too."

"I'm excited for you."

"Me too."

"Goodnight, Will."

"Goodnight, sweetheart."

* * *

_Where is Hyde, Where is Hyde, Where is Hyde?_ Kayla gripped the newly installed barre and tightened her gluteous maximus.

She couldn't face Will alone.

_Hyde should be here._ He and Will were friends! He was on that porch three, sometimes four times a week, drinking tea and chitchatting. She dropped by on occasion to visit Sarah and Janie, but she always called first to make sure William wasn't home. How could she face him without Hyde? Where _was_ he?

It was ten-after-three in her spick-and-span _brand-spanking-new_ studio. Twenty minutes left until her first lesson; five until dancers and parents showed up with their "Hi, how are you?"s and "So nice to meet you!"s. The six windows were open to filter out the smell of paint. The studio was on the second floor, so bars had to be bolted in front of the windows for the safety of the dancers. Cream paint on three walls; brown on the accent wall. Kayla liked the brown. That was a good decision. The wood floors were also new and very expensive. She relaxed her muscles and tested the bounce of the semi-sprung floor.

_Where. Was. Hyde?_ His store was only a couple blocks down Boulevard and was supposed to take a break to help her. But this is how it was since Will's comment about _passion passion passion_ ; that original dialogue that christened the problem, hinted at the man's audacity and tethered Hyde to his store as if he had something to prove. With everything that was going on; with the tension and the notes nailed to the Carmel front door like Luther's ninety-five theses and the way William spoke about that voice and plans to _act_ on that voice... this man who deemed himself a prophet and made bets with innocent dance teachers threatening their lives if they didn't teach well enough.

Kayla twirled. Then she twirled again. She anchored her spins on the wall of mirrors. Her form was flawed. _Her form was always flawed_. How could she teach if she couldn't even spin? How could she look William in the face and say "I can teach your daughter," when she couldn't even spin with acceptable form? _These are just teens_ , she told herself. _They're just kids! Most of them will be excited to be back with friends having fun._

_Fun, Kayla,_ she told herself.

_You love your job,_ she told herself.

And Hyde will be here soon.

But the thoughts of the voice returned; thoughts of a stage built on that hill. The town thought Will was crazy, that nothing would come of his speech. But Kayla knew better and it was driving _her_ crazy. There was a darkness... no, it was more physical than that... there was a _monster_ hiding behind this talk of voices and visions and theaters. It was a real, living monster that was always with Kayla like a ribbon wrapped around her heart and tightening with every day that came and went with William and his craziness—because that's what it was, _his craziness_ —and Kayla wanted to slaughter that monster and cut the ribbon and feel human again.

Quarter after three. The chime on the door jangled. _Please,_ she thought, _please Lord God up in Heaven, don't let it be William Carmel._

* * *

"Hi, hi, hi!" Kayla shouted from across the room.

Will whispered to Sarah, "I told you we'd be early."

It was Janie's first day of dance and Kayla was holding a meet-and-greet for the parents to show off her new space. Janie led the way from the first floor, up the stairs ("Because it's better for my legs than the elevator, Dad."), through the door with the jingle bells and into the studio expanse.

Kayla knelt to Janie's level and hugged her. "Are you ready for your first day?"

Janie looked to her dad, then back to Kayla. "Yes, Miss Kayla!"

Sarah squeezed Will's hand, _thank you_.

He squeezed back, _you're welcome_.

"You know," Kayla said, "you're going to be the youngest kid in class—"

"I know. I'll be the best too."

"Janie," Sarah said, "Retain your dignity."

"Do we get to pick out music today?" Janie asked, then dropped her backpack and ran to the mirrors. "This place is bitchin'!"

"Janie!" Sarah called. "You don't say that word in class."

"Sorry, Ma!" Janie was dwarfed by the wall of mirrors. She darted from one side to the other, then performed a flip for her reflection.

The dynamic between Sarah and Kayla fell quickly into place. They were at the comfort level where eye-contact was unnecessary for understanding, and with a quick hug and fake cheek-kiss they slipped into nonchalant talk about decorating and carpools and so-and-so's blog entry. Will was left in the dust.

Kayla's black leotard fit nothing like a leotard should. It was loose on the shoulders and draped below her breasts in miniature folds. Beside Sarah, Kayla look like a child. Sarah was petite, but still had a form with defined shoulders and dark hair framing her face. Kayla looked malnourished.

The chime rang again, then again, then again, and within minutes Will was surrounded by giggling high-fives, bubble-gum cellphones, and the hum of prepubescent desire. Luckily there were no boys in this class. With estrogen so thick you could touch it, a drop of testosterone would be as dangerous as releasing a rabid German Shepherd on twenty helpless bunnies. Actually (William amended his metaphor) it would be like a _helpless_ German Shepherd and _rabid_ bunnies. Either way, a single boy would distract from the lessons.

Will recognized several of the girls. There was Meg and Becca who he knew from countless summer slumber parties, waking up at midnight to pee and finding the three of them in the bathroom eating homemade cookies and whipped cream. There was Hannah Banerjee with her own group of friends; Sandeep and Jenna shaking hands and nodding to old and new acquaintances. Jaxon Silverman had a fourteen-year-old daughter, but she probably stuck with Miss Alice. Good.

Kayla gathered the teens into clusters on the floor when the chimes rang again. All heads turned to the door.

Hyde slunk in and mouthed _"so sorry"_ , but Kayla ignored him.

Will gestured _"over here"_ and Hyde tiptoed across the room.

Kayla turned her attention to the half-circle of kids. "Good afternoon ladies and parents! Welcome to Kayla's Dance Studio!"

"She's going to kill me," Hyde whispered, adjusting his black Whitaker-Electronics Polo.

Kayla continued. "I'm pretty sure I know the answer to this, but how many of you are from the Brandywine subdivision?"

All but three hands shot up. Sarah wiggled her hand indicating _"kinda,"_ and William kept his arm at his side.

"That's what I thought! Well, I just moved to Brandywine, but we're way down at the end. I have a puppy named Giggles and a husband named Hyde. I like to cook and dance, and sometimes I cook _and_ dance, and that can get pretty messy! I'm thinking at least once this year we'll have a pizza party at my place, but only if you do really well at the competitions!"

"Sounds like fun," Will said.

Hyde rolled his eyes.

"I know you're all teenagers and most of you have been tapping since you were toddlers, but I want to make sure we get off to a good start together, so we're going to go over some rules."

The children released a collective groan.

"They're simple, ladies! First, keep your hands to yourself. No chewing gum. No food or drinks, only water. All clothes and personal belongings must be left on the hooks in the corners of the room." She pointed. The kids looked. "Absolutely no cellphones, iPods, iPads, Nintendo DSs, Blackberries, Raspberries, Blueberries, or any other berries! And most importantly, tap dancers, please keep your feet quiet while the teacher is talking! This is my biggest rule. I know you all love the sound of taps, but you can respect the class by keeping your feet still!"

"Is she okay?" Will asked.

"What? Yeah, she's great," Hyde said. "She's been a little stressed with the renovation, but she's doing fine."

"Looks a little pale."

Kayla cleared her throat and looked at the men. "And no talking when the teacher is talking."

The girls snickered. Hyde ran his palm along the side of his hair.

"Alright ladies, I'm going to pass out recommended competition music. Parents: suggestions are always welcome as long as the lyrics are clean and the music is danceable."

For six solid seconds, a fog cleared over William's heart and he realized he had been cruel to Kayla. She was, after all, a child of God and the wife of the man who was becoming his only friend. His cynicism didn't stem from her lack of dance ability; it stemmed from the comparison to Miss Alice. Kayla was probably a fine dancer. She was probably a good person. If anyone would benefit from his stage, it would be her.

Six seconds came and went and by the time Will scanned the recommended song list, he forgot about his epiphany. The song "Hallelujah" appeared on the list four times by different artists (none of which, Leonard Cohen), and in parenthesis beside every version read "with the bad verse removed." A third of the songs were covers of music that was popular a decade ago; another third was teenie-bopper garbage that would never have a place in the Carmel home. The rest were faith based songs, mostly lyrical.

"Isn't that the pastor of your church?" Hyde asked.

Will looked up from the paper, followed his friend's gaze, and accidentally caught the eye of a man in his late forties with a crescent of black hair around the back of his head. The man nodded to Will. Will nodded back. "Yep."

"Alright, parents," Kayla said, "go home! Leave your kids with me and when you come back, they'll be even better dancers than they are now!"

The children cheered and leapt from the floor. The parents mingled as they worked their way to the door.

"Here he comes," Hyde said and backed away.

"Don't leave me alone with him," Will whispered from the corner of his mouth, but Hyde was gone.

Pastor VanDuyn shook Will's hand and held up his own copy of recommended songs. "This list could use a few William Carmel numbers sprinkled in."

"How are you, pastor? Your daughter's here?"

"Both of them. Mary and Rachel." He pointed to a cluster of kids.

Will wasn't sure who was who, but nodded anyway. "I know it's been a few weeks since I adorned the congregation with my music—"

"You've been busy. Your sins are forgiven."

Will smiled.

"I do, however, have another favor to ask."

"You want me to force Miss Kayla to mix in some Rock?"

He took Will's shoulder and squeezed. "I would like you to give your testimony to the church."

"My testimony?" He scoffed. "No offense, Jim, but I don't think I can fit my life story into a single service."

"I think our congregation would be interested in your experience. You're living proof of a modern-day miracle."

"Ah, so it's the voice of God you want." He thought about the offer.

"I'd like some time to pray about it, if that's okay—"

A half-choking gargled sound made William turn. Kayla was watching the conversation, hands cupping her mouth, and milk-colored slush squeezing between her fingers.

Will rushed to her side and put his arm around her back to guide her to a bathroom before she exploded. Three steps later, she did; down and in her sagging leotard and across the new wood floors. His eyes met Hyde's. Sarah ran to get a rag.

* * *

If a homeless man was given sixty dollars to buy clothes, he might look something like William did on the days he visited Marvin Gibson at the architecture firm downtown Grand Rapids. The cuffs of his jacket were rolled up enough to see his arm hair, and his knees were brown with "real work." _How can people function in such a sterile environment?_ he wondered as the elevator beeped, signaling the fourteenth floor. It wasn't a cynical thought—Marvin was a genius and Will respected his work—but what kind of mind functions in a place completely stripped of character? No matter how many times he visited this office, he was never prepared for the sickness he felt when the elevator doors slid back to reveal thin berber, fluorescent bulbs, and the smell of copy-machine toner; things that epitomized failure.

However, if the smell of toner meant failure, what did the vomit stink on his left shoulder say about him? He was going to need to supervise Janie's dance education... Kayla was dealing with her own demons and couldn't be trusted to teach.

Marvin's office was at the end of the cubical corridor. Will pushed his hair behind his ears, knocked politely, and stepped inside.

"What I'm gonna show you today is the best anyone could do with the plans you gave me," Marv said instead of "hello."

"Not my plans," Will said.

"God's plans. Right. Like I told you two months ago, God is a damn good architect. The layout was surprisingly detailed for a sketch on notebook paper." When Marv spoke, Will listened as if he was trying to catch a train on horseback.

The architect pulled out a cardboard tube.

"Is that it?" Will asked.

"This is it." He tapped the end, then pulled out the blueprints. There were seven sheets stacked together and Marv spread his hands to keep them flat on his anally methodized table. "I don't like to ring my own bell, Will, but not many people could tame your imagination _and_ design something as beautiful as this."

The prints _were_ beautiful. No one would doubt the source of inspiration. In only twelve meetings, Marv had turned a torn piece of yellow notebook paper back into something divine.

Will ran his hands over the pages and studied every hand-crafted detail. "The chorus room... it's going to be—"

"Expensive. You've got room for fifty actors in there. I'm meeting with Leo Sims about the specifics. He's the general contractor and theater specialist I told you about and we're going to discuss all the shitty details that I don't understand because I'm not a theater guy, you know? We'll go over the plans to make sure that our visions align. We'll assure the architecture matches the reality of a working theater, and then he can start the bid process."

"Twenty-five rope pulley system."

"Right. The pulley system, the sound system, the lights, the piano-hatch, the projector and screen you keep talking about, the orchestra pit, and your silly curtain—"

"I want a curtain."

"I know. They're not customary with amphitheaters, especially amphitheaters in Michigan. You'll need to winterize her like a boat. Take down the curtain, protect the floors... but whatever you want, we'll make it happen. We'll also have a preliminary conversation about the standard bids: electric, heat, structure, excavation, plumbing. I'll be working with Leo based on our conversations, but he'll meet with you down the road to discuss specifics. He's not cheap, Will. You understand? He's not cheap."

"Money isn't an issue."

"I'm just sayin'... he's not cheap. You're going to need to start thinking about maintenance, even outside of the winter months. There's a reason Michigan doesn't have many large-scale amphitheaters, you know? You'll need to consider all types of weather and that's something I'll talk with Leonard about and something you should talk to him about too. You've got that beautiful wood floor and the hydraulic lift..."

"And a roof designed by my genius architect."

"With a ten-foot overhang, yeah, we should be good. I'm just sayin'. What about parking? Did you make a decision?"

"I'm talking with the guy who owns the vacants by Big Blues. Thinks he can get more for them. We'll see."

"If you have seating for eight-hundred patrons--twice that many when you include the picnic area--you're going to need parking for those people."

"We'll make it work."

"Don't pave it. You're wasting your money. People can park on gravel."

"That's the plan."

"I mean, someday you can pave it, you know. But now I would recommend you just make it dirt."

"That's the plan."

"Okay," Marvin said.

"Okay," Will said.

The men shared a moment of silence, knuckles on the table, eyes scanning the documents beneath them. "Will," Marv said, "it's not too late to make this a cement slab with a-hundred-and-fifty seats. Or maybe a nice little bandstand. We could do it for twenty grand. It would be great for recitals and plays..."

"I have my mission."

"Your mission, yes you do. And we'll get it done for you, Will." Marv paused. "It's going to be... a sight to behold."

"Yeah," Will said. "It is."

* * *

"Stay inside, Janie," Will commanded with a swipe of his hand. "Watch through the screen."

She nodded. "Careful, Daddy."

There was " _Daddy_ " again.

Sarah squeezed Janie's shoulder and shook her head in disapproval.

Will's bare feet balanced on a wicker rocking chair. He held a rusty paint can with gasoline sloshing around inside. Hyde held the lighter, though his sandals were planted firmly on the porch.

A beehive was the target with wisps of papery earth concealing the honeycomb inside. Yesterday it was the size of a softball. Today it was a basketball.

"Don't piss 'em off," Hyde said, his arm extended with the lighter and his face turned away.

"Mr. Whitaker said 'piss.'" Janie giggled.

"He's an adult," Sarah said. "You're a kid."

"If anything is gonna piss 'em off," Will said, "this'll be it." The bees swung in wide orbits around the nest. "These ninety-degree days are making them anxious. Little bastards."

"Daddy said—"

"I heard him," Sarah interrupted. "Dad's in trouble when he finishes this."

"Just do it!" Hyde yelled.

"You need to get your hand up there. They'll be pissed after I throw this."

"Yeah, we covered that!"

"And wait until the gas is completely out of this bucket before you hit that lighter!"

"I know how gasoline works!"

"Okay, ready?"

"Do it!"

"Three. Two. One." Will tossed the gas on the hive and the bees shot out, tripling the size of the swarm. Some fell to the porch. Most tried to find a clean spot to land.

"Light it!" Will shouted and hopped off the chair. He watched Hyde's eye and knew there was no way he was sticking his arm into that mass of stingers. Just when he was about to grab the lighter to do it himself, Hyde's brow creased and he struck the lighter with his thumb, shot his hand through the bees, and successfully ignited the hive. With a whoosh and mini mushroom-cloud, more bees fell to the porch and flames devoured their home.

Sarah and Janie clapped from behind the screen.

Will's smile was barely visible behind the veil of insects, but he didn't flinch. "We'll have that tea now, dear."

The electric ring of a lone cicada settled the men back into their seats. The show was over and it was time to relax in the fading light of a summer evening.

"I'm going to open a second store," Hyde said.

"Business has been good?"

"Grand Rapids. Downtown. Next summer. Assuming all goes well." Hyde jutted his pelvis and reached in his back pocket. He pulled out a pack of Pall Mall menthols.

"Didn't your mother die of lung cancer?"

"Does it bother you? Just one a day."

"Does Kay know?"

Hyde thumbed the same lighter that killed the bees and lit the cig. "I love the Boulevard Street location, but that damn Best Buy drains so much business. My overhead will skyrocket downtown, but at least I'll squeeze in where the big guys can't build."

"Congratulations. Really, that's a big step."

"You're the only person who knows besides the wife. I need to make sure it goes through before I spread the news."

"Of course."

Hyde patted the growing ash onto the porch. "It is a big step, isn't it?"

"Doesn't mean it can't happen. Have you prayed about it?"

"Of course."

"Well then, good things will happen."

"Yeah."

Will detected doubt in Hyde's voice. "Have faith."

"I do."

"I know it's harder for you."

"What does that mean?"

"It's easier to believe when you've heard the voice of God. Faith is harder for you because you're walking blind."

Hyde didn't respond, but took another drag of his cigarette.

"Your business will work," Will said. "My stage will work."

"I guess it requires a certain amount of faith to believe you too, right?"

William narrowed his eyes and looked at his friend. "I suppose that's true."

"I believe that _you_ believe. But how do I know what you heard and saw was really what you say it is?"

"What do you think I heard?"

"Do you really trust it? Do you want to risk financial security based on a silly voice?"

"Et tu Brute?"

"I'm your only friend, Will. If I don't prod you, who will? Your architect buddy is doing it for the money. Sarah would follow you anywhere. Just tell me the truth, Will. Are you doing the logical—"

"Logic never played a part in this."

"Did you tell Janie?"

"She knows about the stage. She thinks it's a fantastic—"

"About the voices."

"Sarah doesn't think it's a good idea to tell her. I agree."

"Please don't do it, Will. It's only been two months. Take a year off and think about it. Go back to the piano bar."

"Date's already set for the groundbreaking."

Hyde sucked on the filter, but the cigarette was nearly gone.

"July four," Will said.

"In a month."

"Yeah."

"I guess I'm too late." Hyde rubbed the butt out on the arm of the chair.

"I want you to be a part of it. Like you said, I don't have many people to share this with. Also, I'd like to go through Whitaker Electronics for all the equipment. Lights, video, speakers... I wouldn't bring my business anywhere else. I'm assuming that that a purchase like this will help facilitate the move to a second store?"

"Yeah." Hyde paused, taking it all in. "Yeah," he said again.

"I told you, have faith."

"Dad!" came Janie's voice from the kitchen. "Dinner!"

"Stay," he said. "Call Kay and tell her to get her ass over here. She's been stressed and we're not taking 'no' for an answer."

Hyde stood. "I'm sure she's still in bed, but I'll tell her you offered."

Will remained seated. "You're sure everything is fine?"

"She was embarrassed today. But the rest of the class went well. She made a joke out of it with the girls—"

"But is she okay?"

"She's great. She's excited about the studio."

"And you guys are happy?"

"Of course. Why?"

"Family is the nucleus of civilization."

"Dad!" Janie called again. "Tell Mr. Whitaker to stay!"

"The nucleus calls," Hyde said.

Will stood and grabbed his friend's shoulder. "Last chance. Bring her over?"

"Not tonight. But soon."

"Dad!"

"Movie at my place this week?" Hyde asked. "I've got some new equipment to test."

Will nodded. "I'll be there."

* * *

"No Hyde?" Sarah asked when Will entered alone.

"Has Kayla said anything to you about marital problems?"

She shook her head and tossed a pile of napkins on the dining-room table. "No. But I asked."

"You noticed it too?"

"How could I not? She's a mess. And Hyde's been cold."

"What did she say?"

"Says she's fine." Sarah kept her voice soft. "I wonder if they're jealous."

"How?"

"They're churchgoing people. They had a lot of friends at their old apartment. They led bible-studies, they were very involved in other organizations... now they come to Brandywine and they're thrown into a new community. And now their neighbor..." Sarah rolled her eyes _._ "Maybe it's stress."

"Maybe."

Sarah sighed. "We have a lot to talk about at dinner."

Will gave her a puzzled look.

She held up a plastic zip-bag with shredded paper inside. "It's a report card. Found it in her trash. I haven't had time to piece it together, but there's at least two Ds."

Will's face prickled. "Didn't you realize the semester was over?"

"Didn't _you_? She always gets As. We haven't asked for her report card in years."

"How did she—" His question was interrupted by the bounding footfalls of a very-much-in-trouble little girl.

Sarah whispered, "Two weeks without friends."

"Or phone."

"Deal."

They sat down at the table. Will slid his notebook—stuffed with stage details—to the empty chair. (He would never set it with his other notebooks. That stack was creative limbo; where ideas go to die.)

"Let's eat, I'm starvin'!" Janie twirled her chair away from the table.

"You're not sitting with us?" Sarah asked as she folded her hands and placed them in front of her like an apathetic inquisitor.

"Need to stretch. Practicing all night." Janie lifted her leg above her head and wrapped her arm around it.

"Janie," Will asked. "Did you go for a run today before dance?"

"Uh huh. Always do. And I never leave the neighborhood so you don't have to be mad."

"I know you don't. You've been going on these runs for a couple months now?"

"Uh huh." She twirled and took a bite of her sandwich.

"Did you get the mail today?" he asked.

"I get it every day. Just tryin' to help out."

"Just trying to help out..." he repeated.

Sarah's unblinking eyes never left her daughter.

"And was there any mail that you may have forgotten to give us?"

Janie stopped chewing and swallowed hard.

"You know I hate lies," Sarah said.

"You have Ds in two classes," Will said. "Next time you should flush the evidence. It's safer."

The stretches were over. Janie pulled her chair back to the table and looked at her plate of sandwich triangles.

"I can't believe your teachers didn't try to contact us," Sarah said.

Will cocked his head and smiled. Janie never could lie, but she was fantastic at getting herself into a position where she wouldn't need to. "Janie... when a student does poorly at your school, how do they contact parents?" he asked. "I mean, during the semester, before the report cards."

Janie pulled the bread off her sandwich flicked off some lettuce. "Mail."

William looked to Sarah, doing his best to hide his smirk. "She's been collecting her progress reports too."

"What were you going to do if we asked you for your report card?" Sarah said.

"You never have before, but if you did ask, I'd say they're doing it online this year. I know you guys don't know how to use a computer."

Will said, "So now what? What's your contingency plan?"

"I don't have one," she said. "I just want to say I'm sorry."

Sarah looked at William, "It's too easy. What do you think?"

"I think you're right."

"Well," Janie said, "I was thinking... maybe I'll do better next year if I get paid for my As."

"Ah," Will said, "There it is! Always thinkin'. The apple doesn't fall far, does it?"

Janie smiled.

Sarah didn't. "What went wrong this year, honey? How did this happen?"

"Is it a boy?"

"I just don't care," Janie said and took another lettuce-free bite of sandwich.

"What do you mean, 'you don't care?'"

"School doesn't have any baring on my future. My teachers don't know how to teach. I can learn more from books and real life than I can from them. I don't need a bell to tell me when and where to go."

"You're twelve!" Sarah said.

"Twelve is the new sixteen, _Mom_."

"Don't talk to your mother that way."

"You guys need to chill."

"Excuse me?"

"I said—"

"Two weeks without friends or phone," Sarah said.

"Dad!" Janie pleaded.

"You heard her."

"Two weeks? _Two weeks_?" Janie stood from her chair and slammed her fists on the table. "How about two months?" She marched out of the room.

"Janie!"

She returned ten seconds later toting a backpack. She dropped the bag on her plate, unzipped the front pocket, and removed a folded piece of paper.

"In this one, you look like Moses." She unfolded a crude comic strip drawn in colored pencil and spread it out in front of Will. "You have a staff and beard and everything. See these big letters in the sky that say, _'Follow your dreams. Murder your daughter?'_ That's God telling you what to do." She unzipped the pocket completely and twenty more comics fell out.

"I have another one where a dog tells you to build an outhouse on the hill, and another where a talking hamburger tells you to stab yourself in the eyes with pencils and you do. It's pretty bloody. Mom wouldn't like it."

Will couldn't speak.

Sarah stood and moved around the table until she was reading over his shoulder.

Will managed, "Why didn't you show us?"

"In this one I'm dancing on a stage and you're praying, _'Please make my daughter a good dancer.'_ It's a real nice drawing. They got the color of the scar just right. It was taped to my bedroom window last week."

Sarah shook her head. "Where do kids get this stuff..."

"Janie," Will said, taking her hand. "You should have told us."

"Oh, right! Then I can be the girl with the scar, the girl with the Dad who hears voices, _and_ the girl who rats out bullies! Whatever... they can go fuck themselves." Janie threw her backpack to the floor, flinging the comics wildly across the table. She bolted upstairs.

Will didn't have time to reprimand his daughter for using that word, but after seeing those folded comics and imagining the scenes they depicted... he couldn't blame her for blurting out an obscenity.

Sarah didn't speak. She didn't need to.

Will felt like an ice-sculpture, frozen in his seat and slowly melting. "I'd stop if I could," he said. "I would stop all of it if I could."

"I'm not telling you to stop," Sarah said and moved elegantly to the living room couch. "I know you wouldn't if I asked. You went against my request. You told those people at work." Sarah was a dark figure in the unlit room but her eyes reflected the light from the kitchen chandelier. "I know you're sorry, William. I know you don't want this for our daughter."

Will stood, walked to the couch, and sat beside his wife. "Thank you," he said then raised his hands to touch her shoulder, but she shied away.

"Fix this," she said.

* * *

In the golden-hour of evening, when the sun was just behind the horizon and bathing the world in shadowless light, Hyde pulled himself home. His house was only a hop-skip-and-a-jump from Will's, but he killed time by meandering through the most recent development of homes, admiring the subtle differences in the layouts and petting the Johnson's Sheltie. "Do you smell Giggles on my leg? Do you smell girl-dog?" he said in a baby voice and pet the dog's head through the fence.

The Brandywine neighborhood had so much potential. There could be block parties, garage-sales, community wide philanthropies... Before Easter, he had big plans to invite his block to a barbecue; to organize a new poker night and a new bible study.

His yard was green and needed a haircut. He liked the sound his sneakers made when he walked through the grass; a kind of swish-swoosh swish-swoosh that distracted him—momentarily—from the bad news he had to give Kay.

She wouldn't be asleep. She never slept anymore. She would be pacing the living-room with The Food Network keeping her sane. Every so often she would try to calm herself with a puzzle on the dining room table, sorting first by edge pieces, then by color, then twisting those little cardboard pieces until they slid together and she would "ah ha" every single time. Pacing and puzzles became new sports in the Whitaker-slash-Reid household, and Kay earned the gold every night.

He took the shortcut from the driveway through saplings held down with twine and stakes. He passed Kayla's Garden of Engraved Phrases; twelve stones and counting. She found expressions that were meaningful to her and carved them permanently in stone with that fancy machine. One said: " _Always laugh when you can. It's cheaper than medicine_." Another: " _Life is not the amount of breaths you take, it's the moments that take your breath away."_ Or one of her favorites: _"A smile is the beginning of peace."_

One glance through the window and he knew his prediction was right. The fifty-two-inch LCD screen was playing The Food Network in glorious high definition while Kayla—dressed in pink pajamas and a white robe—walked circles around her Noah's Ark puzzle.

"Tell me you love me," she said and met him at the door. Her frail arms touched his face and dragged down his shoulders.

"I love you," he said.

"Do you mean it?"

"Do you really need to ask me that?"

"Tell me you did it. Tell me you convinced him."

Hyde took her hands in his and pulled them away from his face. "You're overreacting."

"Tell me you made him stop."

"I—"

Kayla beat her fist against his ribs, just once. "Tell me this is over."

"I tried, Kay, but he won't stop."

"What are we going to do?"

"You're overreacting, sweetie."

"If this stage... if Will..."

"Breathe, Kay."

"If I have to spend the next six months watching him build that stage, afraid that he'll find out..."

"He won't."

"Why did you let it go this far? Why didn't you stop it when you could?"

Hyde kicked off his sneakers by the specified shoe-mat. "We've been over this. I thought it would die down. After he announced it at the piano bar... what could I do?"

Kayla jerked his shoulder and spun him around. "When he finds out it was you... when he finds out it was _my voice_... when he finds out it wasn't God that spoke to him..."

"What's the worst that could happen? He'll be pissed. He'll be mad at us and his feelings will be hurt. We didn't do anything illegal, Kay. We're not going to jail."

"He's pouring millions of dollars into this project based on a prank!"

"It wasn't a prank."

"What if everybody finds out?"

"You're being paranoid. Breathe, honey."

"I am breathing!"

"Do I need to get the pillow case?"

"I'm fine!"

He grabbed her wrist and led her to the couch. "We're not talking until you calm down."

"Those..." she gasped for air.

"Calm, Kay-Kay."

"Those..." A cluster of succedent breaths stopped her again.

"Kayla. Honey. Look at me." He grabbed her cheeks and held her gaze. "Breathe normal or I'm getting the pillow." He held his hand against her chest as if he could somehow steady her breathing.
A minute passed. Kayla was calm. "Those speakers are still in the stables," she said.

"They're small. I showed them to you."

"But if he finds just one..."

"He's never in the stables anymore. He's too busy with the new plans to work on the piano. When I get a chance—"

"Tell him we were drunk. We had a bottle of wine and you were testing out some new equipment—"

"I can do it if that's what you want."

"It's that easy?"

Hyde watched the seconds on the antique cuckoo clock. "No."

Kayla's eyes clamped together and her mouth formed a silent "o". Her neck curled down, her face fell into his chest, and her tears seared through his shirt and onto his skin.

"Tell me you love me," she said.

He watched the clock. In thirty seconds, that bird would spring out of his tiny wooden box and announce eleven.

"Hyde?" she said again. "Tell me you love me."

**FOUR - Setting the Stage**

Only three weeks after the piano-bar speech, careful observers of the Brandywine dynamic noticed a subtle paradigm shift.

Most of the people who believed The Incident was a real-as-the-dead-sea-scrolls miracle weren't in attendance for the piano-bar rant, but heard the news second hand. In the month-and-a-half between the final architectural drawings and the groundbreaking, this group became more prominent. Jen and Will Rogers invited the Carmel's over for their weekly house-church service. William shared his testimony (more subtly than his infamous rant) and spoke about Ray-Ray the ballerina, Charlie Arson the drug dealer, his failed career as a film director, his battle with drugs, his redemption through Sarah, his relationship with God, the birth of his daughter, and finally, his calling in the stables. The group listened intently, their appetizers staling in their hands as Will's story transported them away from mundane acoustic songs and quiet prayers.

Before Will's experience, he saw the residents of Brandywine as a singular mass; _"Those People,"_ or _"The Others."_ He saw the community as a rash spreading from one end of the fields to the other. Now, like cellular mitosis, the neighbors began splitting off into their own unique life forms. Marvin Gibson, once "the architect from NYU with the dying dogwood trees" was now fleshed out like a character in a Dickens novel. Morgan Demfield transformed from "a chiropractor's wife with grey roots" to that woman who stared at William with deep fanaticism. She too invited the Carmels for dinner, but Will declined and never told Sarah about the invitation. Meg and Becca became "Meganbecca" and, as word spread that Will's plans were becoming a reality, their parents became interested in who their daughters were spending time with. A couple phone calls, a couple more dinners, and the rash of faceless neighbors became distinct. New offers for beers on porches and backyard barbecues and lunches on Boulevard were different from the Easter egg hunt. The picnic was _his_. He did it for the kids. They were on his turf. But to Will's surprise, the more people that worked their way into his life, the more he enjoyed the interactions. He _liked_ sharing his story. He _liked_ mingling with new folks and influencing their beliefs. Marvin, for example, was an atheist. But through the interactions with Will and his stage, there were several opportunities for careful witnessing. Though Sarah initially discouraged him, Will finally accepted Pastor VanDuyn's offer and spoke to the congregation at the The Church of the Dunes.

It was that Sunday in late June when William officially announced the July fourth as the groundbreaking for his stage.

Meetings with Leonard Sims became more frequent as quotes from the subcontractors arrived. Will's initial estimation of 2.4 million was short as Marvin predicted, but in the end, Leonard proposed a budget of 2.73 including ten percent for himself and five percent for overrun. Will accepted the quote.

As the groundbreaking neared, Jaxon Silverman defied Will's command by approaching Sarah with his offer. He began the conversation with the assumption that Will didn't tell her about their meeting, but was sorely discouraged when Sarah told him that her husband not only told her about the offer, but that she would stand by his decision. "William doesn't lie to me, Mr. Silverman," she said.

They had a pleasant lunch together anyway, comparing the ups and downs of raising daughters. Jaxon's little girl was only a year older than Janie and already drowning in boy drama. "Janie's not quite there yet," Sarah said. "Thank God!"

* * *

As Carter Shelby held his fist in the air ready to knock, he asked himself again if it was really worth a hundred dollars. _More than a hundred dollars,_ he told himself. _There was Tracy Cavenaugh._

The thought of Tracy and those beautiful mounds and that little plastic bear decorating the center of her bra he once glimpsed when she bent over his math homework... that mischievous teddy was the thought that brought his knuckles to the wood and flecked paint of Janie Carmel's front door.

He was thirteen, Janie was twelve. There was nothing illegal about this, was there?

The door opened.

Janie stood in the frame. Thick make-up covered that scar and a white ribbon held back her hair. Her mom stood right behind her.

"Hey Carter," Janie said.

"Come in Carter, make yourself at home," said her mom.

"Thank you, ma'am." Carter's own mother was a Razorback cheerleader sometime in the eighties and she made certain her boys were raised with warm southern manners. "Your home is beautiful."

"Thanks," Janie said.

"Well, thank you, Carter. We enjoy it," said her mom.

The house was old and not very beautiful. It didn't look anything like the other houses in the neighborhood. There was a giant fireplace against the far wall. It was made of stone and nearly reached the ceiling. The dining room table had two sets of books on it. He recognized the first stack from the middle-school summer reading program. He had the same pile on his bed. Another stack consisted of five notebooks and a rolled up blueprint; probably Crazy Mr. Carmel's homework for the stage.

"Can I get you two some food? We have crackers and—"

"No Mom, we're fine." Janie turned to Carter. "Wanna hang out in my room?"

Carter was taught never to reject food when offered, and he was also taught never to go in a girl's room without her parent's permission, but the endless possibilities of a one-hundred-dollar bill and that little winking teddy bear made the minor infractions acceptable, just this once.

One of Carter's vocab words last semester was "aloof," and that was a very good word for Janie. Other than the scar, she was hot. Not as hot as Tracy, but definitely hotter than Amy. The boys at school liked Janie, but kept their distance. The girls hated her. Carter didn't know why; they didn't have anything to worry about as long as she had that creepy mark on her cheek.

"When does your dad get home?" Carter asked on the way up the stairs.

She rolled her head and said, "He's talking with some contractor guy. Coupl'a hours."

To get the full one hundred dollars and the respect of Tracy Cavenaugh, it was imperative that the dad was home too. Mr. Carmel was kind of like those Greek gods that Carter learned about in English class; everybody talked like he had super powers, but Carter knew he was just a normal guy. His parents said they didn't know what to think about Mr. Carmel; said maybe he heard voices and maybe he didn't. Maybe he lied so people would look at him. They said only _he_ knows what really happened in that big shed and _he_ would be the one to answer for his claims at the pearly gates. Despite all the craziness, they were still excited about the idea of a theater on that hill.

Carter loved the smell of _girl_. He got to go into Tracy's room once, and that smell of fruity perfume and cotton balls and fabric softener gave him a stiffy like a blue popsicle and he had to excuse himself to use the toilet. Janie's room was no different, at least not in smell. She opened her door and the aroma snared him like a tractor beam. _Maybe there would be underwear on the floor_ , he thought, then pushed the notion from his brain. _He had work to do._

"Wanna watch a movie? I have a DVD player. My dad got it from Mr. Whitaker for free."

Dang, she was forward. All this talk of "aloofness" but Janie was a girl just like any other. He had a while to kill until Mr. Carmel got home, so a movie was probably a good idea anyway. "Sure," he replied.

It was a two-part dare and each part was worth fifty bucks. It wasn't just Tracy's money; she didn't have a hundred dollars to spend on dares even though her dad was a cop. The money came from Carter's Sunday school class; ten bucks per kid.

They were relatively simple objectives.

Number one: Take a picture of Mr. Carmel in his house.

Number two: Kiss Janie's scar.

Carter would have to perform both tasks with grace if he was going to make it out alive and avoid a call to his parents.

Janie insisted that Carter pick the movie, but her collection was weird. She had at least twenty DVDs, but a lot of them were in black and white and the rest were musicals.

"I really don't care," Carter said. "I think the lady should choose anyway."

"How about _Moulin Rouge_?"

Carter had never heard of it. "Sure."

"It got robbed at the Oscars. _Chicago_ won the following year; still a decent movie, but it was _Moulin Rouge!_ that brought back the genre."

"Aloof." The perfect word.

The movie began on Janie's thirteen-inch TV. Carter noticed that she left the bedroom door open a hair and assumed Mrs. Carmel had the same expectations as his own mother when it came to boys and girls in the same room. He sat on the edge of the bed with his elbows on the lavender comforter while Janie laid down and put her chin in her hands. From this vantage he could eye her body up and down while mentally removing her pleated tank-top and loose, watermelon-pink shorts.

Girl's have babies when you have sex with them; third grade taught him that. Sex feels good for girls too; his brother taught him _that_. Carter was pretty sure that if he had an hour with Janie with that door closed and locked, he could figure out how to make her feel good.

But the door remained open and the movie continued to sing. Janie interrupted every so often to point out a dance move.

The time on the bed proved to Carter that Janie liked him. When he was around girls, his senses became hyperaware like Spiderman. He knew by the way she adjusted her body—the way she twisted to reposition her blanket—and when she settled in the comfortable position, she allowed her shorts to droop just enough for him to see the elastic strap of her underwear. There was no doubt in his mind that she was flirting.

Voices downstairs and Carter's ears perked like a wolf. There was a man's voice, and soon enough, Carter recognized it as the guy who stood in front of church and detailed his experience with an angel.

"I need to go to the bathroom," Carter said.

Janie pointed to a door in her room.

"Um," Carter stuttered, "I don't want you to hear me."

"I don't care if I hear."

"I would be more comfortable—"

"Go out the door and turn right, past the staircase and on your left."

"Thanks." He stood.

"Hey."

"Yeah?"

"I like your shirt," she said. "It looks good on you." Janie's head was turned, just slightly, accentuating the pretty side of her face.

Carter should have responded. It would have been the polite thing to do. But he left the room instead. He turned and he ignored her smiling compliment and he even shut the door on the way out. The thought that he should abandon the dare worked its way through his brain like a worm chewing through an apple, but he heard Mr. Carmel again and thoughts of Tracy's affection found that worming bit of empathy and smote it.

Carter tiptoed to the staircase, grasped the rail with both hands, and listened.

"Leonard is stopping by to look at the hill. We need to determine the exact placement of the orchestra seating. He's got all the technical specifications and legal requirements that we need to keep this ball rollin'."

"Great, honey. Should I make dinner?"

"You know what Marv told me today? He said that he heard Silverman and Binder were planing to build luxury homes on top of the hill. Said maybe I could get a good deal out of it if I changed my mind."

"Did you tell them they already approached you with an offer?"

"Nobody knows that. And what would I say? 'Yeah, they offered me two-and-a-half and a gorgeous new home, but I'm following my heart anyway?"

"Should I make dinner?"

There was a moment of silence. Carter leaned closer to the railing and heard the delicate sound of wet, smacking flesh.

"What was that for?" Mrs. Carmel asked.

"Don't worry about dinner," Mr. Carmel said softly. "I'll make us something when Leo leaves."

Another kiss.

Carter removed his cellphone from his pocket. It wasn't the best you could buy, but it had a four-megapixel camera and a sound recording program. He peered through the railing and saw the couple's backs. (What if Janie thought he was pooping? That would be embarrassing. He had to hurry.) He weaseled his hand through the bars and blindly pointed the camera-phone to the area where the adult Carmels were standing, and pushed the button that snapped the silent pic.

Sweet! _The photo was dead on._ Mr. Carmel was just turning to leave and the photo caught all the necessary detail in his face. _Now Tracy's comics would be even more amazing._

One objective left and the money was his.

"Did you wash your hands?" Janie asked when he walked in. "Your hands aren't wet."

"I dried them good."

"Well."

"What?"

"You dried them— Nevermind." She inhaled hard.

"I like yours too," he said.

"What?"

"Your shirt. It looks good on you. I like tank-tops."

"Thanks."

"I like the movie too. I bet you're a better dancer than those ladies. That's what I heard anyway..."

Janie didn't respond, but paused the movie and dropped the remote to the ground.

Carter sat on the bed and faced her. "Can I kiss you?"

Her eyes widened. Maybe he made a mistake. He was too forward. She probably had never been with a boy and she probably just wanted to watch a movie and he probably should have just kissed and ran—

"You'll be my first."

He looked around the room. At her lampshade. At the window. At the TV screen... _anywhere_ but her eyes.

"Mine too," he said.

It was true. He had eaten worms, kissed a cat's butt hole, licked a nine-volt battery, sucked a bouillon cube without making a face... but he had never kissed a girl.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his hand shaking at the newfound reality of the situation.

"Yeah. If you want to."

"I do."

"On the lips?" she asked.

"On your cheek," he said.

"Okay." Janie turned her smooth cheek.

He could see the sparkles in her blush. He touched her chin and turned her head.

"No," she said. "Please not that side."

"How come?"

Janie looked at him with wet eyes. "Please. Not that side," she repeated.

Carter didn't have a choice. He wasn't here to please some psycho's daughter. He moved in harder and Janie pushed against his chest.

He moved in again. Harder. He grabbed the back of Janie's head and she twisted away but he was stronger. It turned easily in his grip and he pulled the scar like raw meat to his pursed lips and felt the smooth, rippled malformation against his mouth and nose. He pulled back, released his hold, and Janie—eyes brimming and stinging—shoved her legs into his stomach, backed away and cowered on her bed.

Carter didn't try to console her. He didn't try to apologize. He double-tapped his pocket to make certain his phone was in place, then tore through that door and down those steps and past Mrs. Carmel and out the front door.

Tracy's house was only a block away.

* * *

When Sarah approached Will twelve years ago and announced she was pregnant—behind all the hugs and showers and classes and ultrasounds—Will wanted a boy. Boys fall down, they scrape their knees and they get back up. Boys masturbate. Boys beat up other boys, then shake hands and move on. Will could handle boys. But girls... _girls were drama._ Girls talk. Girls manipulate. They're smart. At twelve, they can run circles around boys (and most of them know it).

"Did you like him?" Will's voice echoed inside the piano as he inspected the results of his procrastination.

"I don't know." Janie swiveled on the piano stool and lightly tapped the keys.

"How do you know him?"

"Goes to my school. It's not a big deal."

"Do you know why—"

"Meg heard from Brock that it was a dare."

Will pulled out his head and slapped the dust from his hands. "Do you want to take piano lessons this fall?"

"If you think I should."

"I do."

Janie punched middle-C with her index finger.

"Wait," Will said. "Play that note again."

Janie looked at him, then struck it again.

Will closed his eyes. "Again."

She did.

_Something wasn't right._ He opened his eyes. Where were his tuning forks in this cyclone-stricken shed?

"Why are boys so complicated?" Janie asked.

Will turned away so his daughter wouldn't see his smirk. "Boy's are God's simplest creatures, Janie. None of them are smart, but they're not all mean either."

"I guess."

"There was no way you could have known he would do something like that on a play date."

"I'm too old for 'play dates.' And I knew what he wanted."

"I guess I should stop being surprised at how fast kids grow up."

"Yeah, that's getting old."

Will rummaged through tools on the workbench. The tuning forks had a fancy case, but most of them were scattered around the studio. Middle-C was probably hiding on the shelves. He ran his hand along the jagged wood of the top plank, in and out of grease-stained rags, batteries for electric screwdrivers, and old TV antennas. His fingers hit something promising and he pulled it out. C-sharp. _So close._ "No more boyfriends for a while?" he asked.

"Maybe I'll start dating girls... though they're not much nicer."

He laughed and opened the top cabinet door. A loose cigar fell in his hand. He reached higher and pulled out the whole box—six left—and tossed them in the trash. No middle-C.

"Is your piano done yet?" Janie asked.

"Close. Only three strings left to attach and tune."

"That means you haven't touched it."

"I have other priorities." He moved to the stack of paint cans and wiggled his fingers between them. He couldn't imagine it would be hiding back there, but when his finger couldn't move any farther, he began unstacking the cans.

"Dad."

He turned around. Janie held a shimmering tuning fork between her fingers. "Middle-C?" she asked. "It was under the stool. You know you can buy an iPhone app to tune pianos."

Will turned around. "Ah ha! Hit the fork on the stool and play the note again."

She did. The fork released a thick reverberation that shook the stables. She pressed the same note on the piano. "Those don't sound the same," she said.

Will's heart dropped. _The pitch was too high._ It was the summer humidity. He was stupid— _so stupid_ —to leave a piano in a shed with thin metal walls and no floor. He told himself he'd be finished before the humidity hit, but now the crown had expanded and was pushing the bridge against the strings harder than it was supposed to. Every note would need to be retuned.

"You okay?" Janie asked.

"Stand up."

She obeyed and stepped toward her father.

"Four tendus," he commanded. He'd think about the damn piano later.

"Tendus? Easy."

"It's not about 'easy.' It's about perfection. Toes turned out. Preparation with your arms."

Janie turned her heels in, then dropped her arms into an O shape. "I've been practicing with YouTube videos."

"Draw a line with your toe..."

"I love Miss Kayla, but you were right."

"...and erase the line. Beautiful. Again."

Janie performed the simple move again. Will held her waist and mimicked the arm movement above her.

"Janie."

"Yeah?"

"Does it bother you that Dad heard voices?"

"I think it's cool. But I wish you woulda told me sooner."

"Watch your fingers. Arch your arms. It's not a bend, it's an arch. Two more tendus."

"I wish I could help build your theater next week."

"You will. There's lots of ways you can be involved."

"Really?" Her hand trailed her father's.

"It may not be easy though... Finish with the preparation position."

"What do you mean?"

"The road that God wants you on is never the easy one. People might not like what you're doing."

"I know."

"Stretch for me. Touch the ground."

She obeyed. "I have faith in you."

"That means a lot to your old man. Watch your breathing."

"I am."

"You know, faith isn't just about believing in people or God. It's required for everything."

Janie's breathing steadied as she pondered the concept. "That's not true," she said. "I don't have to have faith about stupid things."

"Sure you do. You need faith that the piano is really here. One. Two. Hold."

"No. 'Cause I can see the piano."

"Right. But what happens when you close your eyes? How do you know it's still there?"

"Because I can feel it and hear it."

"So that piano only exists because your senses tell you it does. But what if none of your senses are working? What if you can't hear or smell or taste or touch? How do you know the piano actually exists?"

Janie considered the question and relaxed the stretch.

Will continued, "Some people say that God sees everything too, so he must be the thing that sustains all life, whether _our_ eyes are open or not. Pretty deep stuff for a twelve-year old, huh?"

"Hurts my brain. My back is stiff."

"Port de bras. Fold your body down..."

Janie obeyed. Will held her form in his hands and felt her body curve under his. "Come up. Lift and bend. Breathe. Do you know what visualization is?"

"Something with your eyes?"

"Your mind's eye. Keep your legs together. Visualization is sort of like watching yourself and your routine. Has Kayla taught you that yet?"

"It's only been six weeks."

"It's the most important lesson. When you're in bed at night, picture your routines over and over in vivid detail. Think about how it feels on your legs and where your arms should be. And most importantly, picture the perfect performance every time. Even better than you think you're capable of."

"That doesn't actually help."

"Arc down. Way down... and come up. It does help. They proved it with basketball players. They observed three groups of people. The first group threw free-throws—"

"What are those?"

"Shooting baskets. They had the first group shoot baskets all day long for a week. Another group closed their eyes and _visualized_ shooting baskets all day. The third group didn't practice at all. Do you know which group did the best?"

"The ones that saw it in their heads?"

"Well, they made the exact same improvement as the people who practiced all day with a real ball."

"It works for dance too?"

"It does. I'm going to lift you."

Janie faced Will and extended her arms. He lifted her body until her hip was against his ear.

"Descent form," he said.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"If all that's true... if God sees everything and that's why there's life... what happens if he blinks?"

* * *

Work went long again.

Hyde's invisible grey Impala drifted easily over the speed-bumps of Brandywine Drive, headlights swooping through mailboxes, bouncing off bike reflectors and illuminating the glowing green eyeshine of fenced-in dogs.

As he drove, he replayed last night's conversation in his mind.

"Remember your birthday present?" he had asked his wife as they undressed.

"My engraving machine?" she asked.

"No... your other—"

"We can't do that tonight."

"I know we've been so busy with—"

"Seriously, Hyde?"

"It'll relax you."

"It's fine if you want to do _that_ ," (oh, how she emphasized " _that_ "). "But we're not using the present tonight."

Hyde was embarrassed. That was the third time Kayla shot down his gift (and the hundredth time she denied him sex) since this whole stupid mess began. He wouldn't ask about it again.

The headlights careened past the Carmel's home and two humanoid figures appeared in the stable's plastic window. They waved. Hyde flickered his lights in response, then noticed Kayla standing in their own window, first eyeing the silhouettes in the stables, then lifelessly tracing Hyde's car as he parked in the drive.

This wasn't the first time their marriage was disrupted by Kay's tendency to panic. She was fantastic at finding silly problems and mulling them over and over until her body couldn't handle the hell her mind had created. He asked her to go to a shrink. She refused.

If Hyde didn't find a way to curb his wife's fear, her brain would lose control and she would try to solve the problem herself.

Kayla was not a clean cryer. Mascara ran blotchy skid marks down both cheeks and flakes of red skin peeled from the rim of her nostrils. Her red hair (no, her _orange_ hair) was flat in the front from swiping it persistently out of her face. When she really got going—when panic swooped in and she abandoned all rational—snot would pool on her upper lip and Hyde would give her a tissue.

"Still crying?" he said when he opened the door. "Seriously, Kay-Kay, you need to get over it." He pulled the bluetooth headset out of his ear and tossed it—along with his wallet, Rolex and cell—into the basket on the kitchen bar. He unbuttoned his Whitaker Electronics shirt, pulled it off, tossed it in the laundry room, and dimmed the living-room lights. "I have a plan," he said. "We can do it tonight."

* * *

"Hello?"

"Good evening, Jax."

"Who is this?"

"I'm on my daughter's cellphone. Called to tell you the theater's moving forward."

"William?"

"I have contracts from six Michigan, Illinois, and Indiana theater troupes, the two largest dance competitions in the country, The Church of the Dunes, and First Pentecostal Church. I can pay cash for the two-and-a-half million and I'll become profitable in eight years."

"Congratulations, Will. Truly, I wish you the best of luck on your investment. Is that why you're calling me at eleven PM?"

"No Jax. I'm calling to tell you that I don't hate you. Also, I think we need to be on the same page with this project, considering our proximity."

"Your voices are ruining my development. I don't think we can mend this bridge."

"It doesn't matter what you believe. I know what I heard."

"There was a time when I expected Bill Carmel to hear voices. I thought we moved past that."

"You can believe with all your heart and soul—way down in your bowels—that I'm back on coke. But I'm not. You can swear on your life and your mother's grave that my insanity is ruining your business, but listen to me carefully... _this is not my will._ Somehow you will be provided for. More importantly, this is happening whether I'm crazy or not... and it's happening now."

"There are people with no stake in Brandywine Gardens that hate your project, Will. That stack of lumber you've got up there sent my phone ringing for days. Some people want peace and quiet. They don't want a radical prophet in their neighborhood, building religious monuments within earshot of their home. That's what it is, Will, _a religious monument_. You embedded that stage with meaning that scares people. Those who don't believe in God think you're crazy. Those who believe in God, but not in you, think you're dangerous. You may be right; Brandywine is a hip subdivision and several of our residents show mild interest in your plan. But I've done what I can to keep peace with the others. I only want one thing: harmony in the world I created."

"You'll get 'harmony' by agreeing to my terms."

"And what are your terms?"

"You give public approval of the project. I want your greasy hand on that shovel when we break ground. I want you to change the noise curfew from ten PM to eleven PM on Friday and Saturday. And I want performances to have the option to run until midnight without speakers."

"And in return?"

"All residents of Brandywine, yourself included, will have free admittance to all shows in the picnic area, and fifty-percent off every seat in the house. In addition, when this project is a success, the people of Brandywine will love and respect you for your support."

"For the record, I don't believe you. I've seen you at your worst and I pray you're not heading there again."

"And?"

"And I'll talk to the board about your request."

"And I'll stop calling in the middle of the night. Goodnight Jax."

"William?"

"Yeah."

"Our original contract still stands. That won't change. Phase fifteen has been scheduled for early next year."

"Goodnight, Jax."

"Goodnight, Will."

* * *

"I think he hung up the phone, but he's still moving around. I don't see Janie's shadow, but she hasn't left yet either."

"I'm almost done."

"That's all the equipment we had? Just your computer?"

"Do you know what you're going to say?"

"No."

"Figure it out, Kay. Write down what we talked about."

"What if he doesn't believe it this time? What if he recognizes my voice and finds the speakers?"

"He didn't recognize it before and he won't now. I have the presets saved on the synth program so your voice will sound exactly the same."

"This won't work."

"It could."

"It won't."

"Chill, Kay."

"What if he takes Janie to bed and doesn't come back?"

"Then we try again tomorrow."

"What if he never goes back in the stables? The Fourth is in a week. _They break ground in a week, Hyde._ "

"We'll be here every night. It'll happen."

"Okay. _It'll work. It'll work. It'll work._ Wait."

"What?"

"Sarah's coming out of the house."

"To the stables?"

"She's walking across the yard."

"Is she walking to the front of the shed?"

"She's knocking on the door."

"Now what?"

"Hold on."

"The comp's searching for the wireless speakers. We'll be ready in five seconds."

"Sarah's leaving. Janie's in her arms. Looks like she's asleep."

"We're connected. Will's alone?"

"Yeah. He's alone."

"Good. Then let's do this."

* * *

Fur Elise never sounded more horrifying. Will imagined a child standing outside the stables office in the warm summer night, feeling the sway of the trees and listening to this possessed variation of the nineteenth century's most haunting tune. The middle octaves were affected more than the high and low, though none of the notes were fully spared the pestilent humidity. But William played with heart, if only to fully delve into the consequence of his mistake.

Through the side window, he could see the top of the hill and the crooked shadow of stacked lumber and it eased his sadness over the broken piano. He would need to bring the injured beast inside, let the crown dry, string the last three cords, retune every note; and it had to be done before the completion of the stage or the hatch and lift would be worthless. No other piano would rise through that floor; only _this_ piano, and Will was going to be the one to fix it.

There was something safer about failing than procrastinating; something less damning. The notebooks and binders in the bedroom (and beneath the living-room TV, and beside the dining-room table, and on the shed workbench) were the result of waiting; waiting for something better, waiting for his talent to age like wine, waiting for life to clear the perfect opportunity... waiting for an angel.

The stage would be the resurrector of creativity. The notebooks would serve a purpose. Each binder was another buried crypt with the skeletal remains of undeveloped artistry; songs, plays, movies, sermons, poems, books and artwork summoned from the grave like Lazarus, given flesh and blood and muscles to _inspire_.

When the stage was complete, he would delve head-over-heels into those tombs, digging up fossils he hadn't considered in years, brushing them off and juxtaposing their brilliance to spark the highest goddess of all creative endeavors: _originality_.

" _William."_

( _Dear God,_ how he prayed for this moment!)

_Here I am!_ Will shouted in his head, then again out loud, "Here I am!"

He wouldn't show doubt this time. He wouldn't look for a source. He wouldn't check the windows. He wouldn't call Sarah's name.

" _William."_ It was nearly a whisper but it was heavy with the same intensity as the tuning fork.

He stood, looked to the ceiling— _through_ the ceiling—and tried to speak but his lips wouldn't move. All senses turned to the voice. His ears blocked out the wind, the creaking aluminum walls and the angry midnight crickets, leaving Will in screaming silence.

" _You have passed."_

"Passed?" William kept his eyes on the ceiling. "Passed wh—"

"Your faith was strong. You have found favor in the eyes of God."

"I have done only what was commanded of me," he said. "And my dreams are coming to fruition!"

She didn't respond. He waited. He remained rigid. He rubbed the back of his neck, gently so he wouldn't spook the angel. He flicked his eyes across the rafters. Perhaps he shouldn't have—

" _Your faith was strong, William. You have found favor in the eyes of God."_ The tone of her voice became harsh as if "You have found favor," was a command instead of a statement.

Will turned his head to the side window but the hill remained a hill. His eyes watered. His body hair tickled and stiffened from the back of his neck to the knuckles of his toes. He didn't know how to respond.

" _Do not fulfill this ambition,"_ she said.

"Ambition?" he whispered. "Do you speak of the stage?"

The voice answered immediately with a boiling scream that startled Will so deeply that he stumbled backward, thrashed his hands to catch himself, and crashed his tailbone into the dirt. _"Do not continue production on the stage!"_ The angel was clear. _"Do not continue production on the stage!"_

Will ran so quickly that he banged his elbow on the shed's doorframe and the sting softened the ache in his ass. He stumbled through the yard and made it halfway home when Sarah burst through the screen door and rushed outside with her grey nighty smacking her bare legs and licking the dirt.

He fell to his knees.

"What happened?" she asked, dropping to his level.

He didn't respond.

"William! What happened?"

He looked up. His eyes met hers. "I tripped," he said.

"Why were you running? I heard the door slam. You looked terrified!"

"What do you mean, sweetheart? I was on my way inside. It's getting late."

Sarah pushed a brown strand from her eyes, then touched her husband's face and squeezed his cheek like she was kneading dough. "Will, you looked so scared."

He smiled and took her face in his hands. "Honey. I'm fine."

As cheerful and nonchalant as Will forced his expression, he couldn't soften Sarah's concern.

"You're okay, then?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Promise me nothing happened?"

Will shook his head. "I promise, Sarah. Nothing happened."

* * *

It took six one-hour pitch meetings for Bill Carmel to secure five million dollars for his film. It took three minutes and one line of coke to lose it.

For Sarah, everything started when Stan Bright called her house at one in the morning and told her to get to the office immediately.

She ignored the seventeen-mile-per-hour Brandywine signs, ka-thunked over yellow-painted speed bumps, and fishtailed her car with a spurt of gravel into Bill's midnight-painted yard. Stan was packing office supplies into his car.

"What's he doing?" She asked. "What's going on?"

Stan didn't look up. "I'm done. He's on his own."

"What? Why?"

"I told him at the beginning: any drugs and I walk. Jaxon introduced us, but he also made his warning clear."

"Stanley! What happened?"

He dropped a box of folders and spun around. The moonlight revealed a black-and-blue eye.

"Tell me Bill didn't do that..."

"He's been more aggressive than usual—"

"Tell me he didn't hit you."

"—twitching, talking fast, rambling about things that don't matter. He can focus on a thousand things at once, but not business. He chewed out our PA for buying sunflower seeds without the shells. He's been cruel to the ladies. Our costume designer walked; I asked Bill what happened and he blamed it on stress. I told him that making movies is stressful. He said he'd be fine, but I searched his bathroom and found a rail by the sink."

"A rail?"

"Of coke. Cocaine. That's in addition to the pot he's smoking daily. I toke now and again, but not like Billy. And with the speed on top of that? I won't do it."

"Speed?"

"Amphetamine. Dexedrine. Ritalin. Whatever he can get his hands on. I didn't care at first; I saw the prescription. But at the rate he takes those fucking pills, he must have a dozen pharmacists with a dozen prescriptions."

Sarah didn't believe in silly things like Big Foot or the Abominable Snow Man, but if she had to imagine what their screams would sound like echoing through an empty house in a cornfield, it would sound like Bill. A terrible crash punctuated the terrible bellow and Sarah started for the house.

Stan grabbed her arm.

"What?" she asked.

"The drugs will ruin everything. If word gets out to the investors that the writer-director-producer is snorting coke and abusing speed, they'll pull out. This isn't Hollywood. Michigan backers are conservative and they're skittish. Plenty of good directors use hard drugs, but even at their worst, they can hold their shit together. If Bill continues like this, he'll lose it all." Stan released her arm. "I took his keys, but I don't want to see him again."

"I'll take 'em."

He reached in his pocket and tossed her the key ring. "I'd be more comfortable if you let me call the police."

"No. I'll talk to him."

"Do you want me to wait outside?"

"Go, Stan. And thanks."

"Watch yourself, pretty girl. Take care."

Sarah marched across the lawn, up the trio of steps, moved aside the broken screen door, and stepped into the living room.

The house was Gomorra dusted with a blanket of brimstone fallout from the angry hand of God. The corner between the fireplace and window looked like a toppled shelf from a liquor store. During her previous visits, the film equipment had some manageable order, but now lights and cords and fabric peppered the counter, tables, stairs and floor. The carpet smelled like mildew, the curtains like skunk, and the couches like nicotine. Anything and everything that could trap odor in its fibers did, and Sarah grabbed her nose to curb the stench.

Bill was naked. He stood tall and white and out of place. When he saw Sarah in the doorway he grabbed a fleece blanket, covered his manhood, ran his shaking fingers through his hair and said with as much normalcy as possible when caught naked in a drug-induced meltdown, "Hey, beautiful. You just missed Stan."

"I did?" Sarah's voice was barely a whisper. "Why did he leave?"

"He's not with the project anymore. Creative differences." Bill opened his mouth wide enough for a lion tamer to put his head in, then stretched his jaw in all directions.

"Creative differences?"

"Jaxon found him a job working construction until he can start his own business. He'll land on his feet."

"So the movie is still—"

"'Film,' Sarah. 'Movie' sounds so Hollywood." Bill folded the corner of the blanket into itself and began picking up garbage.

"You've been crying."

"It's stress."

"'Stress' is the reason you're naked, gaunt and talking faster than a fourteen-year-old valley girl?"

"Stress can do crazy things."

"So it's not the coke? It's not the speed? It's not the pot? It's just stress, Bill?"

Sarah let the accusations sink in.

"Get out!" he suddenly screamed and moved toward her with spider-like steps through his web of debris. She backed to the door but fell when her foot slipped on a red cellophane gel and toppled her balance. Her back hit the door frame and her butt landed on beer-sopped carpet. She scrambled her legs and arms like a trapped mosquito, and just before the creature reached her, she found solid footing, pulled herself up with the door handle, and tore across the porch, grass and gravel to her car.

It took two weeks for Bill to call. Sarah spent that time mentally preparing to tell him no; to tell him that, whether the project was moving forward or not, she was no longer involved. But when he cried to her that morning— _actually cried—_ God softened her heart and she heard her boyfriend's plea. He said he wanted to get clean. He said he could change.

Sarah wasn't a fool; she knew Bill's sincerity was most likely a ploy. But she felt God place upon her heart a desire to fix Crazy Bill Carmel. Perhaps it was part of his plan.

So she gave him one last chance. She would help him, not because she loved him, but because he was a human being in need of kindness.

Sarah borrowed her mother's broom, mop, and bucket and tossed them in the trunk of her car. She packed a bag of clothes, her quilt, her favorite pillow, then she hugged her sister and left.

She found him in the master bedroom. He was asleep and naked on the bare mattress and she wondered if he ever put clothes on since that night. She placed her hand on his chest and felt his breath. _At least he was alive._

The twenty-three messages on Bill's answering machine confirmed the end of his film. One investor heard rumors of drugs, pulled his investment, then called the others and they followed suit. From the sound of one angry message, Bill had verbally assaulted a backer's wife at four in the morning. There was a message from a drug dealer named Charlie Arson. She deleted it.

By the time Bill awoke, Sarah had the kitchen in working order. It wasn't clean by any stretch of the imagination, but it was functional enough to make eggs and toast.

Bill didn't speak. He wore blue jeans and nothing else. He scratched his crotch and his hair, then wrapped his arms around her in the middle of the kitchen.

In many ways, the reality of the withdrawal was easier than she anticipated. In other ways, it was harder. Instead of several horrific nights, the symptoms lasted for months. Bill became depressed. He was agitated. On several stuck-at-home evenings he digressed to the couch and whispered snide jabs at Sarah's religious beliefs. She defended herself the best she could, but whenever she removed her bible, Bill scoffed and quipped, "You can't quote religious texts to an atheist, beautiful."

Even when the drugs were out of his system, Sarah had to force Bill to eat anything with calories before he wasted away to nothing. Alcohol and pot were banished from the house. He objected, claiming they weren't gateway substances, but Sarah refused to waver. If he wanted her help, they were doing it her way.

In all of Sarah's preteen fantasies, she never imagined that she would be the first to make a move. She usually slept in the guest room and checked on Bill two times per night, poking around for indications of drug use, feeling his forehead, and checking his pulse. But one October evening, she ignored her normal routine. She slipped between Bill's covers and ran her fingers along his waist. It wasn't _the man_ that turned her on, _it was who he was becoming._ It was the renewed color of flesh, the tone and fat in his limbs, the sour (but human) smell of his sweat. He was better because of her. _She had saved him._ And when her kisses woke Bill—when he turned and thumbed her underwear beneath her cotton nighty—she didn't push him away.

"Is this okay?" he asked and laid between her legs.

(Sarah couldn't imagine "Wild Bill" asking permission with other girls.) "Yes," she said, then used her hand to guide him. It hurt at first, but then the hurt turned to pleasure, and pleasure to euphoria. When he asked if she had an orgasm, she replied, "I think so."

Bill laughed. "'I think so' means 'no.'"

Fifteen minutes later, Sarah answered the same question with absolute confidence.

When the leaves turned gold and the living-room fire became a common fixture, Bill detailed plans to turn the Ray-Ray script into a novel. Sarah was thrilled. The solitary activity would keep him safe at home, and she loved the idea of cuddling the winter away with typewriters, reams of blank paper, and Bill's creative mind chugging away.

Despite typing with one finger at a time, Bill was a fast writer. He churned out ten solid pages per day and Sarah read them, pointed out grammatical errors, and emphasized her enormous pride in his talent. Little by little, she began to trust again. She let him drive to the store. She let him visit cousins in Holland. She let him go to the movies by himself.

It happened on one such movie night as Sarah read alone by the fire. Wind whistled in the gutters and twigs scuttled across the roof. When the doorbell rang, she half-expected Poe's Raven...

... _how she wished it had been Poe's Raven._

The man at the door clutched a cane as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded in the winter wind. He shivered in his camel-hair overcoat and plaid scarf, and Sarah helped him inside.

"Is Billy Carmel home, Miss?" he asked.

"He's out tonight, but he should be back soon."

The man glanced around the house with a look of unfulfilled expectation. "I didn't know Billy got himself a wife."

"Girlfriend," Sarah corrected. "Can I give him a message? Or would you like to wait for him by the fire. I can make tea or—"

"I have something for him. My store will be gone soon, and I thought I could do something good before I go." The man reached into the wide pocket of his coat. Trembling, he removed a VHS tape.

"What store do you work at?" Sarah asked.

"I knew Billy when he was—" the man dropped his hand to his waist, "—about this high. He traded used books at my store. Bought himself candy now-and-again, and tobacco for his pop. I was well acquainted with ol' farmer Dan..." He shook his head. "God bless that man's soul... he's tossin' in that grave knowing what his son's been up to."

"You own the Shoppe 'n Fill?" Sarah asked in a vain attempt to banish the last sentence from her mind. "Bill speaks so highly of you and your business. He says you're the man who pioneered Boulevard."

"I'd like to leave this tape with you, Miss. I trust you'll do what needs to be done."

"If you wait a few more minutes, I'm sure Bill—"

"I wash my hands of this. Make sure little Billy sees the tape. Good evening, Miss."

Sarah offered to help the man to his car, but he refused. She watched him hobble, old and grey, like a brick in the wind.

Black-and-white static created a silver glow on Sarah's face. She slid the tape in the VCR and pressed play.

It was security footage of the gas station just over the hill. The old man puttered behind the counter in the foreground. Bill was in the back, browsing the snack isle... except he wasn't browsing, _he was staring_. He looked at the same spot for so long that Sarah held down the fast-forward button until she saw movement. Bill was on the ground. She rewound the tape to find the point when he fell, but he didn't fall... he laid down. The old manager left his position behind the counter, knelt down, and shook Bill's body. There wasn't sound on the tape, but Sarah could tell the man was shouting. When Bill finally stood, he ignored the man's shoos, sat on the counter beside the cash register, opened a bag of pork rinds, and ate them three at a time. The manager waved a phone in Bill's face—probably threatening to call the police—but Bill ignored the threats and laid down on the counter.

Sarah couldn't watch anymore. It might have been funny if it wasn't Bill. But it _was_ Bill, and it broke her heart.

She pressed pause and the image froze in a distorted black-and-white dream world with wobbly lines cutting stitches through her boyfriend's back. Then she noticed the time-stamp in the bottom right corner: the tape was recorded last night.

Bill returned two hours later, armed to the roof with apologies and excuses, but the house was empty. He closed out the wind and the winter's first snow, pounded the outside from his shoes, and found his world basking in TV light. A note was taped to the screen; taped to his own warped face from a previous high-as-a-kite night on shrooms and grass, a plain and simple note in wet block letters from his typewriter's ink.

" _Don't call me,"_ it said.

* * *

Something wasn't right.

Something wasn't right and Sarah's mind regressed to old habits. The events of past years replayed in her mind; promise after promise, lie after lie. And that security tape...

William laid with his arm across her breasts and his legs tangled her midsection as the incident played in her head again: she brought Janie inside and tucked her in. She decided to wait for William in the living room. She made herself a snack, something he would like too. She walked downstairs and heard the music; "Fur Elise" but a hair out of tune. She looked out the window. The music stopped. She leaned her head against the frame and said a silent prayer for her family. The stable door opened and William barreled into the night with a hand on his tailbone. Her heart leapt and she ran out the door and her husband fell in her arms.

Now—in the same room where she lost her virginity twenty-eight years ago— _something wasn't right._

"William," she began. "I don't believe you." She massaged his scalp and traced her fingers through his hair.

"What can I say to make you stop worrying?"

"I know your eyes. I know your expressions. I can tell, honey."

He pushed himself up and she moved her hand to his chest, brushed her fingertips over his hair, then pressed her palm to his heart. "Honey," he whispered, "listen to me. You're flustered. You saw me running in the dark and you got worried. I tripped. That's all."

She took her husband's hand and brought it to her breast. He squeezed her gently and she kissed his lips. He tasted like sweat, though he just took a shower. "Did you hear it again?"

"If I heard anything, I would tell you. I would be excited."

"Something's not right."

"Baby, I swear to you, everything's fine." His pitch raised with desperation.

A hundred lies in a hundred memories and they all swarmed Sarah's mind. Buried things from decades ago sprung to life at those words, _"I swear to you."_ How many times he swore; on his life, on his mother's grave, on God, on her. And how many times she fell into that snare with his calming nature and charming voice. _The tears she shed_ from discarded trust and broken promises of reform. "You liar!" she suddenly shouted and William's eyes opened wide and nearly teared.

"Sarah..."

She clasped her hands over her mouth. "My God, I'm so sorry." Her head fell against the headboard and her arm crossed her eyes.

"Where did this come from?" he asked.

"I'm so sorry, William." She cried.

"It's okay, darling."

"I'm so sorry, Will."

"Shh." He shook her gently as if it would drive away the bad memories. "You need to start trusting me."

"You haven't lied to me in years. Of course I trust you."

"It's been a busy few months. This is a lot to take in."

"You're right. Forgive me."

"For what?"

"For accusing you. For shouting. Forgive me?"

"Of course I forgive you."

She finally looked in his eyes. "You're crazy."

He grinned. "That seems to be the consensus."

"But you're not a liar. I'm sorry." She pressed her fists into the puffs under her eyes. "I'm sorry. And I love you."

William laughed at her repetition, then yawned a long, genuine yawn, kissed her chest, and turned over. "I love you too, hon."

"Goodnight, William."

"Goodnight, Sarah."

Sarah didn't sleep. How easily those memories came, snowballing from his words "I swear" until she nearly convinced herself again not to trust. It was two hours past her bedtime, but she forced herself to think of happier times.

It was a year and a half after she wrote the note, stuck it to the TV, and left Bill. He managed _more than a year_ without calling, and Sarah Huggins had finally reached a place where her heart no longer yearned for his voice. She was attending Community College when he called, living with her sister and supporting herself as an assistant librarian. School and work held her interest better than she expected (though she still spent her dreams in costume).

It was in the library among stacks of freshly stamped books that she received his call and agreed to meet. Hunched over a narrow table between the fiction section, she avoided Bill's bloodshot whites and listened to his confession.

"Do you know what today is?" he asked.

It was her job to organize the book return; she always knew the date. "April twenty?" she said and kept her gaze anywhere but his eyes.

"I slipped today," he said. "I told myself six months ago that if I slip, I'm going to search out Sarah Huggins and tell her the truth."

"Why?"

"To trick myself. It kept me clean for this long, but it's Four-Twenty today and I slipped."

"Four-Twenty?"

"April twenty. It's a counterculture holiday. Big deal back in Chicago. This morning I get a call from Charlie Arson who I haven't seen in ages and I convinced myself it was okay to invite him over since I've been living like a hermit for six months. But I knew what he would bring and he did and I smoked it. Now I'm here to tell you that I slipped, that I'm sorry, and that it will never happen again."

"You've been clean for six months?"

"Five months and twenty-three days. I was planning a celebration for myself on Sunday, but I blew it." His hands were pink now instead of flaky white. He pressed them flat on the table as he hoisted himself up. "That's all I needed, Sarah. Thanks for listening. I won't bother you again."

Sarah knew that Bill had as many chances as any addict deserved, but hearing his voice again, knowing that he made it six months with _her_ image as support... "I get off work in fifteen," she said. "Stick around?"

She took Bill's smile as a yes, then stood and picked a piece of lint off her plaid skirt.

"I think..." Bill began and she looked up. "I think I slipped today because I knew it would give me a reason to see you."

Sarah finished her shift in a quandary over her decision to spend more time with the man who deceived and broke her heart. Fifteen minutes later, she found him browsing the animal books.

"I'm thinking about getting a dog," he said. "Something fluffy to keep me company."

They perused the library, weaving in and out of the aisles without ever touching a book. They spoke about life apart, about jobs and success, about drugs and meltdowns. They talked about Bill's six months of sobriety. They talked and talked until whispers in the library turned to laughter over Burger King burgers and fries. "I was starving," he said.

Sarah took his hand. "I can't be half of your dilemma, Bill. _Girlfriend or drugs. Girlfriend or drugs._ I can't wonder day-in and day-out which you're going to choose."

He laughed. He pounded his fist on the table and cackled.

"What?" she asked. "Bill? What's so funny?"

"Dilemma? There's no dilemma, beautiful. It's you! Since the night you left me, it's been you. I know what I did wrong. I know I lied. I know I messed up again and again. But if five-and-a-half months isn't enough to convince you that I can do it, then give me a year. Give me two. Give me ten but it'll still be your face that'll keep me clean. And I'll be waiting."

"No," she said. "I'm not falling for this. It is not enough, Bill. 'Clean' is not enough. I'm proud of you for the change; even if you did slip today. But 'clean' is only half of what I need from you." She pushed back her tray and leaned across the table until she was nose-to-nose with Bill. "If you lie to me... if you ever lie to me again, whether it's about snorting cocaine or saying I look thin in a dress when I don't; whether we've been dating for two months or married for sixty years, I will leave you if you lie."

Bill smiled and leaned in for a kiss, but Sarah pressed a finger against his lips.

"I'm not finished," she said. "I'll date you Bill, but I will never marry someone who denies the possibility of God's existence. Are you willing to keep an open mind for me?"

Bill gently took her wrist and pulled her finger from his lips. They kissed. "Yeah, beautiful," he said. "I can do that."

And from the moment of that salty kiss, Bill kept his promises.

* * *

Excitement flourished quietly around the hill on the morning of July four. There was unusual foot traffic, even before William awoke; hikers and joggers made their way past the home and around the hill to observe without appearing to observe. Children teetered their bikes on kickstands where Brandywine met the dirt and played Sardines in the denser patches of foliage. When a noise emerged from the hill or the home, Trent Johnson would shape his hands into a "T", whisper "Time!" and listen for any advancement on the day's affairs.

There were no offensive posts, no Ninety-five Theses nailed to the Carmel's front door. Maybe the offenders decided enough was enough, or maybe the extra attention on the Carmel family kept them away. Janie, however, awoke to the image of her father in a colored-pencil straitjacket standing beside a bulldozer and a decapitated little girl. The artwork was initialed "T&C" in the bottom right corner.

It took the survey team six hours to determine the best path for the bulldozers to safely climb the hill. A few days ago, the lumber truck buckled and slid down the front, leaving zigzags of exposed dirt in the green. Now, nobody was taking chances. The shallowest incline was found at the back of the hill but the larger trucks had to maneuver just right at the base to manage the angle. Sandy tread-marks already tore a path from Brandywine Drive, around the corral, between the hill's base and the trees, and ended in a crescent of thrashed dirt and grass where the work trucks readjusted their vehicles to prepare for the incline. Will experienced similar issues with his riding lawnmower; if the grass was damp, he learned to stay away.

Preparations for the event were simple. There were no official invites, just a general announcement at Brandywine's June board meeting that all residents were welcome to attend. Jaxon Silverman made the smiling announcement only hours after telling the HOA that Brandywine Gardens was a pipe-dream.

* * *

_The padlock._ It was the biggest reason Hyde feared his mission to retrieve the hidden speakers from his friend's shed. If he cut the lock, Will would know someone had been inside.

The red bolt cutters looked menacing in Hyde's hands as he scampered across the weed-covered plots of phase fifteen and into the woods. He stuck his arms out like like a flamboyant T-Rex so the tool wouldn't rub its greasy parts against his khaki shorts.

He spent hours spinning circles in the living room with Kayla, plotting ways to get back inside that dang shed... _but Hyde didn't even remember where he hid each speaker._ There were four in all and he placed them too quickly, dropping them behind disorganized junk and tools. He barely remembered the layout of the workspace; he'd have to hunt for them, and that would take time.

Those troublesome little speakers would be the hottest gift for the Christmas season. The manufacturer was a startup company, just small enough to fly under the radar of the majors, but just large enough for Hyde to discover them at a trade show. Their product demonstration floored him; the craftsmanship and sound quality was on par with Bose, and a rechargeable lithium-polymer battery and incredible wireless range made each speaker a "wow-look-at-that" novelty as well as a "can't-live-without-it" functional necessity. He purchased fifty sets of two, making Whitaker Electronics the sole distributor in Michigan.

When Will nonchalantly insulted Hyde's ambition at the bar, Hyde knew a demonstration of his fancy speakers would prove his passion for his work. When the prank was over, Hyde planned to knock on the shed door, laugh his ass off, and reveal the new technology to a dumbfounded Will... but the evening took another turn and the revelation was put on hold.

The next day came and went. Will made no indication that something strange had occurred in the stables, and Hyde wasn't even positive that his friend heard Kay's voice at all. Maybe the distance between the speakers and computer was too great. Maybe he forgot to set them to the appropriate channel. Maybe he didn't know his business as well as he claimed...

But they did work, and although this madness was never the intended result, it did appear that God was answering prayers. Furnishing Will's theater with lights and speakers would help Hyde expand Whitaker Electronics to the coveted second location. With a second store he could afford more employees. He would manage less, spend more time at home, rake in more money... and prove—once and for all—that his passion for electronics matched Will's passion for the arts.

As long as Mr. Carmel believed the voice was divine, Mr. Whitaker would benefit from the stage.

Hyde made his way through the thorns and brush until he saw the tin stable wall through the tree trunks. He scanned the open perimeter for witnesses, then dashed—bolt cutter in hand—to the shed's front door.

The last time Hyde saw Will was during the reprise of the prank. There was no way to know what effect Kayla's threat had on Will, but one thing was absolutely clear: he wasn't dissuaded.

But Hyde was certain that the speakers worked! Will froze at the exact moment Kay began speaking. When she demanded that he halt construction on the stage, he bolted from the shed! Surely he heard the voice!

But somehow, the plan failed.

This one had to work.

The speakers had to be removed and any trace of Hyde's involvement had to be erased. Two days ago he borrowed the bolt cutters from the maintenance closet at work. He would cut the lock and take it with him. Will would search for any missing tools, find everything in place, and buy a new lock without fanfare or police involvement. Clean and simple.

William was on the hill now, preparing for his speech and setting up chairs. It was the only time Hyde knew for certain where all three Carmels would be. Kayla was there too, helping place the hors d'oeuvres and drinks. She would alert Hyde via text message if anyone left her sight.

Hyde peered around the corner of the shed and looked up the hill. Will's voice carried easily on the breeze as he shouted commands to his wife, daughter, and construction workers.

Hyde moved into position, lifted the cutters to the padlock and pressed his weight on the tips of the handles. With trembling hands, squinted eyes and grit teeth, he broke the lock.

From the hill, a firecracker whistled and popped. Hyde moved in.

* * *

The firework startled Kayla and she dropped the platter of coconut-chicken (with grilled pineapple garnish) as she instinctively looked to the sky. Orange sparks fell like rain, barely visible in the afternoon sun. Janie ran to her side, picked up the fallen chicken, and placed them back on the platter in a neat circle. "Nobody'll ever know," she said. "Feeling okay, Miss Kayla?"

"I'm fine Janie, but thanks for asking!"

"Such a pretty day, eh?"

"Eighty degrees and not a cloud in the sky. Perfect for The Fourth!"

Janie smiled and bounded back to her father to receive her next task. Kayla loved Janie, but as she watched the girl hug Will's waist, she could almost see the exchange of smug narcissism from father to daughter. She often caught herself feeling inferior to Janie, as if the little girl could teach dance better than she could. Will pointed to a stack of drinks and Janie ran to do his bidding. Will looked up and caught Kay's eye. He waved. Kayla waved back.

William wore a bright blue shirt from Lowes Hardware Store and surveyed the scene like Pharaoh watching his Israelite slaves. The podium was repositioned so the sun would hit his face at a two-thirds angle. The lumber was moved, one piece at a time, until he was satisfied with the layout. The pink flags were too small to see clearly, so he made a poor construction worker run to the store to buy taller markers.

Robin Dawson arrived early and introduced herself to Will. Kayla recognized the blonde from her black-and-white photo that accompanied her articles on the front page spread of the Marion Hill Gazette. Her hands made exaggerated gestures as she chatted and giggled with Will, then he slipped her a tip and pointed to the spot where the shovels would hit the dirt.

Kayla focused on her job arranging chicken on trays, trays on tables, and tables behind the chairs while simultaneously observing and avoiding William as much as possible. Hyde assured her that he wouldn't recognize her voice; that the computer made her sound like a different person. But how could she know for certain how it sounded in the stables? What if he recognized in her voice a unique tone or manner of speaking that the computer couldn't mask?

The platters were arranged as elegantly as Kayla could manage. She glanced around the plateau, then took a few steps toward the edge of the hill. She saw the stables, but not the front door. There was no way to tell if Hyde was inside. She glanced back and watched Will. If he left her sight, she was prepared to text her husband. _Dear God up in Heaven, please let this work._

"Give me a hand with this table?" Sarah asked. She wore paint-crusted blue jeans and a t-shirt promoting _The Lion King_ at the Oriental Theater in Chicago.

"Sure!" Kayla skipped to Sarah. "Where does it go?"

Sarah winced and scouted for a new spot. "We don't have enough food to fill all the tables. I thought we could use this one as a welcome booth."

"I love welcome booths!" Kayla said and grabbed her end of the table.

_Where is Will?_ _He was just here!_ Her head twitched in rapid bursts like a pigeon.

"Drop it there," Sarah said and nodded behind Kay.

_Will wasn't on the hill._ Janie was doing her busy-work, bringing pop cans from one side of tables to the other.

"Where did your husband disappear to?" Kay asked and strengthened her grip on the table.

"It's easy to lose track of William when he gets in this mindset."

"Hmm."

"Did he tell you about his idea?"

_She had to get her phone out of her pocket. She needed to text Hyde._ "I don't think so. What was he thinking?"

"Well, he wants to have the theater finished by October. We're going to schedule somebody big for the grand opening and he thought maybe you could choreograph a dance for your class to perform."

Kayla picked up the pace with her feet rushing backwards on tiptoes, nearly tripping Sarah. "That's a great idea! Oh the children will love it! What does Janie think?"

"You know Janie, she's always excited to learn a new dance. Just a few more feet; maybe a foot to the left."

Kayla took a big step back. "Here?"

"To the left a little."

Kayla stepped right.

"Your left."

Kayla forced a laugh. "Wow, I'm in la-la land today, huh?"

"How does that look?"

Kay dropped the table and fumbled her pocket. A call would be faster, but Sarah would hear. With a flip of the cell, a keyboard popped out and Kayla texted her husband with record-breaking speed; " _get out!!!!"_

"Everything okay?" Sarah asked.

"Uh huh!" Kayla said and walked to the edge of the hill. If William found out about the speakers... if he knew that it was her voice... Kayla was prepared to move. Hyde wouldn't like it, but Hyde wouldn't have a choice. There was no way on God's green Earth that she was going to live next door to a crazy man who wanted her dead. They would sell the house and move in with Mom and Dad until they could find a new place to live. It wasn't ideal, but they would—

William was at the bottom of the hill, walking—then running—straight for the stable door.

* * *

The first speaker was behind the paint cans. The second hung in plain sight on a bent nail among the wall of tools (he remembered that one specifically because he knocked over a hammer while placing it.) The little device was camouflaged so well with the other tools that it was almost impossible to see. Hyde slipped both speakers in his front pockets. He had to search for the other two.

The bolt cutters were leaning against the wall beside the door. He couldn't forget them on the way out or a misplaced lock would become attempted robbery.

_Where were they?_ At the time he wanted to give Will the full effect of surround sound. Two were on the workbench... were the other two by the front window? He remembered placing one speaker on the sill behind some empty pop cans while Will was reaching for the cigars... now there was a framed photo of Janie, a tuning fork, and assorted junk. Hyde ran his hand along the sill, gathering a thick finger of dust, _but no speaker._ A muffled crunch of aluminum brought his attention to the trash on the ground and he knelt down and began sorting through.

_Found it!_ Hidden among fast-food containers and a soiled rag was speaker number three. He pocketed the gadget with less care than the others and stood.

"Hyde?"

He spun around. William stood in the doorway in a grizzly pose. "Damnit," Hyde said, "you scared the crap outta me."

Will's body relaxed. "What happened? Where's my—"

"I saw the open door, thought you might be in here."

Hyde's phone beeped with a text message. _Good timing Kay_.

Will inspected the door handle. "The lock's gone." The bolt cutter sat less than a yard behind William's right foot. "You didn't see anybody come or go?"

"No... just the open door." Hyde thought fast. He could either play it simply and pray Will didn't see the bolt cutter, or he could throw suspicion completely off himself and point it out.

Will's breathing intensified. "You were just walking by?"

"On the way up the hill. I told Kayla I'd help as soon as I got off work."

"And the door was just open?" Will didn't look at Hyde, but scoured the door for clues.

"You've got a lot going on today. Why don't you let me look around so you can get back to work."

"You don't know where things go, so you won't know if something's missing." Will's foot bumped the bolt cutters. "What the hell is this?"

"Those aren't yours?"

"Don't touch anything." Will walked to a trash bin, reached inside, and pulled out a cigar. He dusted it off and slid it in his pocket. "I'll talk to Cavenaugh tonight."

* * *

Will dressed for the occasion by throwing a black blazer over his blue t-shirt, belting his work jeans, and sporting sandals instead of steel-toed boots. Sarah wore a simple coral dress that complimented her olive skin. The turnout was smaller than he hoped, but he pushed away the disappointment and focused on the people who came to show their support.

Sean Umbers arrived first and joked, "I nearly wore the bunny suit but decided this wasn't the time or place," then pulled a paper Uncle Sam hat from behind his back and placed it on his head. Will laughed and welcomed him to the party.

Brian "Sherlock" Cavenaugh arrived with wife Sharon tucked easily beneath his bulging arm. In the moments after they arrived, Will noticed Janie balancing on a stray beam behind the lumber pile, scrutinizing the cop and his wife until she was certain Tracy wouldn't pop out from behind her father. William greeted the couple without mentioning the break-in. They would have a private discussion later.

Jen and Will arrived with hugs and side-kisses, followed immediately by the Johnson kids with fists full of sparklers to share with the other children. Jaxon showed up late and overdressed with his daughter on his left, his wife on his right, and Stan trailing behind in a suit and tie (probably borrowed from Jax). Another couple introduced themselves as Joy and Bob Shelby and explained that their son went to school with Janie but wasn't feeling well enough to attend. When they were seated, Janie pulled her dad aside and told him that they were Carter Shelby's parents. Marv arrived behind Leonard Sims. Pastor VanDuyn brought a sampling of his congregation. The widowed Mrs. Danthers arrived last, hugging a bowl of fruit salad and balancing Styrofoam bowls on top. "I'm so excited I just had to bring a dish!" Hyde and Kayla stuck around too, and Will privately thanked them both for their help.

All in all there were sixty-eight people and plenty of appetizers to go around.

At ten minutes after seven, with the sun and clouds creating a technicolor backdrop behind the hill, Jaxon Silverman took his place behind the podium and raised his hand to quiet the gathering. "Mr. Carmel asked if I could say a few words to kick off tonight's ceremony for his theater, and I'm honored to show my support for such an ambitious venture. I've had the pleasure of speaking with many of the Brandywine residents about the construction of this stage. I have heard their excitement as well as their concerns. This evening I can assure you that the HOA is working closely with Mr. Carmel to draw clear lines regarding the integration of this unique development into our community. Mr. Carmel and I will have our ups and downs regarding this spectacular addition to our community, but we have settled on one thing for certain: the Brandywine community will receive free lawn tickets for all shows, and seats will be half off!"

The guests clapped.

Jaxon rambled for another minute about the effect of the stage on the community, bringing work to a struggling economy, a shout-out to his daughter and wife, then finally concluded with Will's introduction. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I'd like to introduce to you a spectacular entertainer, a true humanitarian, and my friend for thirty years, Mr. William Carmel!"

The guests resumed applause—Janie and her friends loudest of all—and Will shook Jaxon's hand and took the podium. With a deep breath and wink to Sarah, he began his speech.

"Thank you all for joining my family on this monumental evening. Thank you for showing your support to the people who will give this project life." Will raised his voice over the breeze and realized he should have rented speakers form Hyde. He looked at Sarah again, and she nodded encouragement. "I've been blessed with a fantastic testimony, and I'm happy that my story has become common knowledge to this town. It started as gossip about a crazy-hermit drug addict locked in a shed with voices in his head. Before this spring I was the man who hosts the annual Easter picnic. Then I became an enigma in the rumor mill. But the turnout tonight proves that we've moved past that. Today is a new beginning. It legitimizes this project and suggests that I'm not crazy. That this is real.

"Some in the community still doubt me. They have attacked my family and harassed my daughter. Today, someone broke into my studio; a place I consider holy ground. What can I learn from these people? Should I let them dissuade me? I will not. The threatening posts nailed to my front door are signs that I'm on the right track. I believe that if we go through life without stepping on a few feet, we're not trying hard enough to make a difference. The offenders might watch the construction of this stage from the safety of their homes. They might laugh at my ambition. But when our work is done and our theater stands tall on this hill, the skeptics will join us for the opening celebration and we will welcome them with open arms!"

Mrs. Danthers let out a whoop.

"In addition to overseeing construction, I'll begin scheduling the fall and spring lineup. I hope to provide the world with an exciting mix of performing arts."

Will took a breath and briefly considered an unrehearsed conclusion. "I was struck with an idea only hours ago when my good friend, Hyde Whitaker, discovered that my stables had been vandalized. At first, I assumed it was an attempted robbery. But then I wondered... who would break into a dilapidated shed without stealing anything? Then it hit me! _Someone wanted to experience what I have experienced._ They wanted to see one of the rare places on Earth where divinity brushed against humanity. And I started thinking... maybe more people will want to experience it too. So in response to this break-in, I will not report it to the police, but I will open my stables to the faithful. My original floor plans will be on display, as well as my written testimony of the events that occurred on Easter night.

"I won't end this speech by dancing on a piano, but I am going to thank the people who have supported my insanity. Together, we will take those shovels and we will break this ground. I would like to introduce my architect, Mr. Marvin Gibson; my contractor, Mr. Leonard Sims; Brandywine developer and head of the HOA, Mr. Jaxon Silverman; and last but not least, Sarah and Janie Carmel, the loves of my life."

One at a time they stood and approached the line of shovels, then ritualistically placed the hardhats on their heads. Janie seemed hesitant, but finally joined the others. The hat sat large and crooked on her head. Robin, the newspaper photographer, took her place in front of the group and snapped some pictures.

Before Will joined them, he had an impromptu addition. "Although they won't officially break the ground with us tonight, I want to invite our good friends, Hyde and Kayla Whitaker, to join us for the photo. Hyde has been a constant source of encouragement for me, and Kayla represents the kind of person we want to reach with this theater: artists and entrepreneurs. Miss Kayla is both. Their loyalty and friendship is undeserved and greatly appreciated. Hyde and Kayla?" Will motioned his hand to the end of the line and the couple blushed at the applause and took their place. Robin adjusted for the addition.

Will grabbed the end of his shovel, said "One, two, three!" and they christened the dirt as the camera captured the moment.

As the applause faded, every eye tilted from the split dirt to the ghost of the future stage. For a moment they sat in reverent silence with captive breath and unspoken expectations. Maybe something would happen. Something _should_ happen, be it heavenly fire, writing on the wall, or a hand from the clouds giving a big thumbs up.

But God remained silent.

Will waited an extra beat— _just in case—_ then raised his arms to the sky and declared, "It has begun!"

* * *

" _The details and concerns regarding the construction of this amphitheater are not religious issues as some in the community have made them. Whether it was Jesus, Buddha, Muhammad or the Tooth Fairy that spoke to Mr. Carmel that night, the focus needs to be on the building's influence on the Brandywine and Boulevard communities, not on the source of the owner's inspiration._ "

The newspaper—lit by morning sun with crisscross transom shadows striking the text—covered the dining-room table like a war map. Will's fists knuckled the sheets in place and he hovered over them like a Confederate general. "She turned my article into a fucking opinion piece. She slanders everything this project means to us."

"Robin is normally sweet," Sarah said. "It's just one article... and she says good things too."

Will scanned the text, then read aloud, " _William Carmel will reap the seed he sows. If he continues to push this 'Voice of God' justification, he will be forced to deal with a plethora of ramifications. He has already pronounced his stables as 'holy ground' and is transforming the structure into a sideshow attraction on the same theological playing-field as the discovery of the Virgin Mary on a Pop Tart._ " Will's fingers pulled at the paper, then crumpled it. "She says we shouldn't focus on religious issues, then attacks me for one. Bullshit."

Sarah kissed his shoulder.

Will broke his concentration long enough to return the peck. " _Morgan Demfield is a Brandywine resident who attended Boulevard's Big Blue's Piano Bar the evening Mr. Carmel announced his vision: 'He said the voice was an angel, but everyone knows that God wouldn't put his will in the hands of a known drug-addict. If that man heard anything at all that night, it was the voice of a demon.' Mrs. Demfield has petitioned the Brandywine Association on several occasions, claiming that nothing good can come from the stage._ "

"It's just a stupid article in a small-town paper," Sarah said.

"It's blaspheme." With a quick snap and swipe of his hand, the newspaper fluttered to the ground.

"I don't want to fight about this."

"This isn't a fight."

"I know we'll have arguments, Will. They're common in periods of change. But I want to get through this as lovingly as possible."

A kiss and a hug quarantined further dispute and Will agreed to keep his stress on the construction site.

* * *

Digging commenced atop the hill, turning the plateau into a volcano with a diamond shaped hole and twenty-foot piles of sand around the perimeter.

Will left the dirty-work to the professionals and focused his attention on the vacant buildings on the Boulevard side of the hill. In the early nineties, the white brick buildings contained a Chinese restaurant and adult book store. Both went out of business in the winter of '97, and the lots never found new entrepreneurs. Although they weren't for sale, Will convinced the owner that the property was worthless, then negotiated a deal to purchase the lot for twenty-grand less than he budgeted. Within a week, the vacants were crushed and removed by the same machines that had dug the hole. A day later, a team of tree-cutters tore a straight path through the foliage barrier, followed immediately by a white gravel road that joined the newly-flattened lot with the base of William's hill.

Thanks to the direct connection with chaos on Boulevard, a chicken-wire fence was installed around the perimeter and "no-trespassing" signs were attached every thirty feet.

The wise man may have built his house on the rock, but Will argued that the _wisest_ man built his house on the sand... with a fifteen-foot concrete foundation. Cement trucks made the circuit up and down the hill with their rotating receptacles filled to a third of their actual capacity.

Will held his daughter's fingertips as she teetered on the foundation wall. "I like this feeling," she said on careful tiptoe then nodded to a group of onlookers like ants at the bottom of the hill. "I like feeling higher than everyone else."

Will helped her down and gave her a wad of one-dollar bills to spend at the food bus, lovingly nicknamed "The Roach Coach." He watched her at the front of the lunch-line in her thin tangerine blouse and black skirt; a Monarch butterfly surrounded by dusty Silkworm moths. She reached up to grab the foil-wrapped burger from the woman in the lunch truck, then quietly observed the crew from her perch on the lumber pile. By the end of August, The Roach Coach would be replaced by a permanent concession stand built into the right-wing exterior wall.

"Complaints are coming in." Jaxon approached Will. He was dressed like a horse's ass with his signature suit, yellow hardhat, and empty clipboard.

Will shook his hand with exasperated enthusiasm. "Please please please tell me all about it, Mr. Silverman!"

"I've received letters from—"

"From that Demfield bitch?"

"—from several anonymous residents. They're—"

"Complaining?"

"—Yes. About the noise—"

"My crew barely makes a peep."

"If you could push your start time back an hour—"

"How about this: I'll move the start time _up_ an hour, I'll handle each complaint personally, and you don't bother me again while I'm working."

Jaxon left without another word.

* * *

Children were the first to believe, pulling their parent's shirt tails and dragging them to see the construction. William would beckon them closer and answer their questions about the cranes or the skeletal bandshell or the cement slab for the orchestra seating. Their wide-eyed faith was inspiring. Doubt would always have a difficult time with kids; somehow, the younger a person is, the more immune they are to that nagging part of the brain called logic. _Faith like a child,_ he mused.

Teenagers were the most hostile; passing through immaturity on their way to false maturity where they could believe anything and everything except facts and miracles; facts being a little too logical, and miracles being a little too dangerous. Faith and apathy struggled in these developing minds. The result was a look of blind superiority as they rolled past on skateboards or in cars with expensive rims and thumping bass.

Adults often felt the same as the teenagers, but Will assumed their disbelief came in the form of quiet chuckles around the dinner table or anonymous Letters to the Editor. " _Mr. Carmel's claims are silly at best and dangerous at worst. His story about hearing voices is a page ripped from The Son of Sam's diary. I won't slander his name with that comparison, but the similarities are apparent. I would love to have a civilized discussion with Mr. Carmel regarding psychosis, but I'm afraid it would have to be conducted through a Plexiglas wall._ " Or Will's personal favorite, " _The religious expectations placed on this glorified bandstand will only disappoint. If God comes down to Earth to direct plays of bible stories with cherub performers and a seraphim orchestra, that might meet the hype._ "

Luckily, the haters and skeptics remained in the shadows as Will's supporters made themselves known. Boy Scout leaders approached him and offered thirty sets of hands to assist with any side projects. Will put the boys to work on the hill itself, patching up tread marks and divots with fresh sod and spraying a nitrogen-based fertilizer to strengthen the blades and enrich the color to a sparkling green. In return, Will let the boys camp out at the fringe of the chicken-wire fence and accompanied the leaders and groups of five on flashlight tours of the structure.

Others showed their support with food. The Roach Coach lost a day of business when Jim Vandyke drove his 4x4 onto the paved VIP lot behind the theater and unloaded two meat smokers and four coolers of unpackaged, raw meat. The smell of charred beef remained on the hill for two nights.

When Jen Rogers heard about Will's insomnia, she rushed over a platter of triple-fudge brownies and a prescription bottle of Ambien. Sarah accepted the dessert and politely denied the meds. When Jen refused the refusals, Sarah finally accepted a palm-full of the pink pills "to get Will through the week" only to toss them in the toilet the moment she was alone.

One morning, Will arrived on site to find six people holding hands and praying in the morning mist. The fifty-foot bandshell stood behind them like a silent apparition in the fog. The group released hands and walked away, then returned a week later with fifteen people, then again with thirty. Will never asked about their intentions. When they opened their eyes and released hands, they simply smiled, nodded "hello," and descend the hill.

Will blamed Robin-The-Reporter for making it acceptable to publicly insult his faith. The first attack arrived at night as he cleared the stables for his side project.

"Uh, Dad?" Janie said softly as if any hint of enthusiasm would scare away the friends at her side.

"Uh, Janie?" Will mimicked, barely looking away from the assortment of unorganized tools.

"You need to see this."

"I'm working. Can it wait?"

Meg and Becca covered their mouths to stifle laughter, but Janie didn't sound as joyful. "No," she said and lifted a photo of a naked woman with her knees by her ears and fingers spreading herself wide. "I don't think it can."

The picture got his full attention. He stood, barreled toward the girls, and snatched the paper from Janie's hands. "What happened?"

Meg and Becca lifted two more photos of women sprawled in lewd poses. Will grabbed his flashlight and blew through the stable door.

At first, the trail of porn seemed to be intentional; maybe a perverted variation of breadcrumbs in an attempt to lead Will—one vulva at a time—to his theater. But when they reached the top of the hill it became clear that the trail was merely litter; overflow from the actual exploit. Will held up his hand to stop the girls, then approached the stage and brushed the beam of his flashlight over the horrific tour-de-force of vandalism. Photos of nude women in hard-core poses lined the theater starting at the top of the visible foundation, past the stage platform, up the curved bandshell and across the lower half of the proscenium arch. The loose corners of the photos flapped against the walls, and the completed shell performed its duty by amplifying the fluttering into an eerie undertone like a voiceless flock of birds.

With a single call to Sherlock Cavenaugh, the defacement became a police matter.

The porn-prank sparked several lesser acts of vandalism including the spray-painted phrase _"God Listens"_ on the unfinished broad side of the theater. Two days later the words _"...to Metallica"_ were scrawled beneath. In another incident of juvenile delinquency, the Carmel's property was TPed. The trees, stables, and slate roof were covered in damp webs of white tissue like a halloween mummy costume. Before Will knew about the prank, Hyde was already in the yard, garbage-bag in hand, picking up draped lines of toilet paper and throwing them away.

"I understand their ignorance," Sarah said. "I understand why people voice their concerns to the Gazette about noise and appearance. But William, why would people attack us like this?"

"I won't let it bother me," he replied.

Will justified the need for a fourteen-hundred-foot iron fence by noting that prevention would save thousands in the long run. The permanent fence replaced the temporary wire barrier and sported an electronic gate for approved cars, a ticket booth and turnstile for foot-traffic, and a hidden access-gate on the Brandywine side for the Carmels' convenience. The last-minute barrier was not part of the divine plan, but it was necessary for the safety of the theater.

When Jaxon dropped off a box of complaints on the Carmel's front porch, Sarah found the motivation to pen her own letter to the editor. Two days later it appeared on the Gazette's front page under the heading _"Living with a Prophet: Sarah Carmel Responds to Husband's Venture."_

" _William's eccentricities may play as an operatic melodrama on the public stage, but behind closed doors he's a normal man with a wife and daughter, doing what he knows is right. Do I believe he heard the voice of an angel? I do. Is it nerve-wracking to follow this voice into the chaotic unknown? Absolutely. But through the insanity—the blind-faith, the vandalism, the threats against my daughter, the financial struggles—there is no one I would rather have at my side than my husband."_

The front half of the stables was opened for visitors in the middle of August. In preparation, Will created seven plaques to display his original sketches, then hung them in a row on the stable wall along with the detailed account of his experience. Sarah designed pamphlets with information about the theater and stables and printed them at home in black and white.

No one visited the holy ground the next day, the next week, or the next month.

Despite four months of restless sleep, Will spent three consecutive nights working security until a permanent guard could be hired. He shuffled around with a flashlight, baseball bat in his left hand and a book about screenwriting in his right. Excedrin and Coke were the only things that kept his eyelids from falling, and his posture was reminiscent of Romero's zombies due to the burning sensation in his calves and the puss-bubbles on his heels. The chorus room was nearly complete now, and on those long meandering nights, Will admired the craftsmanship of the divine collaboration. The electrician wouldn't finish with the chorus room for another month, so he inspected his masterpiece one circle of light at a time. The shape of the room, the position of the mirrors, and the height of the ceiling were all determined by God, but the details came from Will, Marv and Leo. Forty vanities were custom built with the same traditional bulbs that Will remembered from his Chicago internship. The other similarities were unintentional, but when he stood back to admire the progress, he was struck at how deftly his subconscious helmed the design. Like the chorus room from his memory, there were no windows and only one door.

Will liked to visit the hatch. He liked running his fingers along the invisible seam in the hardwood. Leo deemed the lift mechanism too costly to install at the given budget and recommended that they wait for the final numbers before moving forward. "If this project wasn't funded on your own dime, I'd say go for it. But a hydraulic lift isn't cheap... and luckily, it's also not a necessity."

And so he would wait. The piano was still pressing divots in the living-room carpet, and until the last three strings could be attached, the hatch and lift were useless anyway. Will would ensure the project stayed within budget, and eventually he would get his lift. Until then, the room below the hatch remained an empty cell across from the chorus room. The hatch remained part of the stage, temporarily secured with metal brackets and bolts.

* * *

September was "The Month of Hyde." In the weeks before the massive purchase, he spent several midnight meetings in his office with Leonard and Will, their laptops out, brainstorming about the best electronics for the theater. In addition to the standard speakers, colored lights, foot-candles, and rigging, they also purchased a state-of-the-art soundboard, a thirty-foot theater screen, a DLP digital projector, four LCD televisions, two high definition cameras, a DVD player, and nearly a thousand feet of video and audio cable.

Hyde knew that it was extremely unorthodox to place such a specialized purchase through a small electronics company without theater experience, and he was incredibly grateful to his friend for the opportunity to learn and expand.

The last day in September brought Brandywine its first crisp morning. Hyde held the smell of brown leaves in his nostrils, felt that dry breeze on his cheeks, and reveled in the ephemeral memories of childhood autumn. That particular day also brought a woman named Maria Barraza, kneeling outside Will's stables when Hyde first saw her, one palm on the tin, the other in a fist. She was dressed in appropriate fall colors, a cider skirt and red button-down sweater with her thick black hair pulled into a ponytail. Perhaps it was none of Hyde's business, but when he passed the stables and the woman looked to him with damp cheeks, he asked if he could help.

"My boy is sick," she said with a Spanish accent. "I was told he might find healing here."

"Who told you that?" Hyde asked.

"A man on my cousin's softball team. They say God is in these walls." The woman sat up. Her fist was clenching a pink plastic rosary. A wooden crucifix with a gold-plated Jesus hung around her neck.

"I'll see if I can find Mr. Carmel," Hyde offered.

"Thank you, sir, but he is here." She nodded to the stables, then folded her body back into prayer.

Hyde narrowed his eyes. He put his hand on the wall of the shed and let his fingers drag over the rivets as he made his way around the corner to the front door. It was open, and when his eyes adjusted to the interior darkness, he saw William sitting on a stool with his body arched over a seven-year-old boy laying face up on the dirt.

"He's sick," Will said. "His mother brought him."

Hyde forced a smile and a nod, then saw the wheelchair by the workbench. "This is going to help?" he asked.

"The mother thinks it will."

The boy wore cutoff jeans that exposed limp, chicken-bone legs. Hyde tried to turn but the boy's head twisted and his eyes caught Hyde's and his imploded cheeks accentuated the stretching and contracting jaw muscles as his mouth strained to move. "Estoy haciendo fija," it said.

The stables were never the same. Maria brought her family a week later; friends the day after that. Silk flowers were laid at the foot of the workbench. On top, there were blue candles with Mary and red candles with Jesus and the shrine grew daily with trinkets from sick children and comatose elders. The word spread quickly. By mid-October, the visitors weren't just Latinos and Michigan residents. From his living-room window, Hyde could see the line—sometimes thirty people long—with Janie at the door allowing five in at a time.

When only a handful of people showed up at the groundbreaking ceremony, Hyde scoffed at Will's hope that the theater seats would be filled on opening night. But when the workbench shrine began spilling its colorful relics across the foot of the exterior wall, Hyde knew William would have his attendance.

* * *

Seven days before the inspection and eight days before the grand opening, Will denounced the threat of a heatwave and forced the men to instal the black plastic seating. The eight-hundred-and-forty-five retractible chairs were bolted in sets of five into the cement base and Will asked himself again why he was supervising someone else's job when his mind should be on next week's show.

After business hours, Hyde worked closely with his wife and her dancers to choreograph a simultaneous light and video show with projected photos depicting the construction of the stage and the people involved. Hyde offered to create and execute the show for free, but Will said he would compensate them anyway.

His favorite part of the experience was watching the components come together. When the green satin curtain was dropped and pulled into place, he felt like a kid watching chocolate drizzle on an ice-cream sundae.

The fly system came together with time to spare. He helped place the colossal counterweights that balanced hanging drapery from a rope and pulley system. He laughed when the installation company insisted that he take a two-hour training lesson with one of their representatives. (Back in Chicago, Bill was the King of the stage managers!) Fifty bucks was all it took to convince a construction worker to change his name from Saul to William for a couple hours, and Will successfully ducked the mandatory meeting.

Posters were hung, announcements were made, and personal invitations were mailed to key people. Pauline Woodstock already agreed to attend, and Will prayed the opening dance number (with Janie in front) was breathtaking. Pauline was the founder of the multi-million-dollar Sparkle Motion enterprise, the largest dance competition in the world. She was flying up from Tennessee just for the occasion. Before Will approached the businesswoman with an informal agreement to use his stage as Sparkle Motion's Michigan venue, Janie helped him with some internet research. The more he read about the company's grassroots origin and Pauline's ambition to succeed, the more he respected her.

Three days until inspection and the theater was scattered with people, each with his own individual task but all working toward the same collective vision. The landscape was nearly complete with a line of crimson burning-bushes livening up the sidewalk that connected the stairway entrance to the seats. Evergreens were planted against the outside walls by men with Carhartt jackets and gloves as forty-five of Kayla's students christened the stage with their first rehearsal. Her metronome claps reverberated through the stage and the workers fell in step with the beat. Will cracked a sunflower seed with his teeth and smiled to himself as the kids arrived. Some parents dropped off their children in the VIP parking lot. The more curious parents parked on the new gravel lot off Boulevard and accompanied their kids along the boardwalk, up the stairs, and through the pedestrian gate to observe the rehearsal from the new seats.

The concession stand was filled with a rotating pretzel case, popcorn machine, soda fountain, candy bars and all the ancillary utensils and devices required to feed hundreds. Skilled carpenters finished the detail work on the masonry, and the head electrician was called back to figure out why the lights in the stage-left stairwell refused to work. The inspector would notice such an obvious tripping hazard and Will emphasized (again) the importance of perfection.

The chorus room was glorious. Flipping the switch didn't just ignite the haloed mirrors, it brought back the smell of Michigan Avenue perfume and the feeling of kinetic creation. Robin's photo of the groundbreaking crew was enlarged, framed, and mounted on the wall. Friday night the room would be filled with anxious children preparing for the opening number.

Extra lumber was stacked against the loading dock. The storage closet was stocked with cleaning supplies. Sixty-pound bags of mortar were piled in a pyramid in the room beneath the hatch.

The evening before the inspection, Janie slept, Sarah thumbed a devotional in bed, and Will studied his face in the bathroom mirror. His eyelids were heavy and the bags drooped lower than usual. He leaned toward his reflection and studied new wrinkles on his brow. He crinkled his face to stretch the skin. He rolled his neck until it cracked, lathered shaving cream on his cheeks and chin, and removed his razor. It was the last time William would shave for the next year and a half.

* * *

Janitors were the only workers lingering on site, sweeping away the constant rain of dust as the building settled into place. Sarah listened to the rhythmic swishing of brooms, dangled her feet off the edge of the stage, and admired the colors of hibernating trees. William sat beside her. His feet didn't swing. He pretended to read his book about directing actors, but Sarah knew he was too nervous to concentrate. The inspector had been puttering around the theater for the last hour, and if anything was wrong, it had to be fixed today.

William didn't come out and say it, but Sarah knew he wanted God to validate his work at the grand opening like _Field of Dreams_ with actors instead of baseball players.

Sarah wasn't as hopeful. This wasn't a movie. God wasn't going to be so obvious in his plans.

The sound of footsteps made William jump. He stood and Sarah reached to him for help, but Will was already meeting the inspector halfway across the stage. Sarah rolled her eyes and pushed herself to her feet.

"How'd we do?" William asked.

"Well, Mr. Carmel," said the inspector, "we have one major problem. But let's talk about what you did _right_ before we get into that."

William didn't flinch, but Sarah could read the panic in her husband's eyes.

"Your alarms, exit signs, emergency power sources and extinguishers are positioned properly and in full working order. The annunciator panel, I see, is also working properly. With the major exception that I'll explain in a moment, your means of egress are clear, barrier free, and safe. This includes all hallways and stairwells that would be used as a means to exit the building. All stairwells, catwalks, and mezzanines have appropriate protective guards. The fly system is secure and acceptable. The—"

"Please, Mr. Inspector," William said with gentle agony. "What did I do wrong."

"For starters, my name is Mr. Gary Wheaton."

"Gary, of course. What's wrong with my theater?"

"The chorus room only has one exit."

"The room is underground. We can't add any other doors or windows. I can assure you, my architect may not have been a theater specialist, but Leonard is."

Gary curled back the top page on his clipboard. "Who is Leonard?"

"The contractor."

"I would have a nice long talk with Leonard."

William seemed too angry to speak, so Sarah took over. "Why exactly does the room need more doors?"

Gary replied with robotic recollection, "A minimum of two escape routes shall be provided in every room where a single exit could be blocked by a fire. The two means of egress shall be arranged in a way that minimizes the chance that they could both be blocked by the same fire or emergency condition."

"This is ridiculous," William said. Sarah touched his arm but he pulled away. "The room is encased in twenty feet of solid concrete! The loading dock surrounds two of the walls!"

"The room is unacceptable, and unless it's fixed, it's unusable. I'm sorry, but that's the law."

"Unusable?" Sarah said. "There's nothing we can do?"

"My only suggestion is to find another room that could be converted into a chorus room."

"There isn't one," William said through clamped teeth.

Sarah tried to help. "What about the two changing rooms—"

"They're too small."

"I know you're angry, but this isn't something that will squeak by our radar. You seem like a good man, and I know you don't want to imagine a group of kids choking on smoke and flames, pushing against that single door only to discover it won't budge. It seems like an extreme scenario, but I've seen it happen. You don't want that kind of tragedy on your hands."

"I worked in a theater years ago. It had a chorus room identical to mine with only one door and no windows."

"Most of these regulations came about in the last twenty years. I can give you my personal guarantee that if you go back and visit that building today, that room will either have a new door, or they use it for storage." Gary itched his nose. "I don't want to tell you how to handle your business affairs, Mr. Carmel, but between your contractor and the person who drew up the initial plans, you have a solid case to seek reimbursement for the mistake."

"I understand."

"The good news is, as long as you don't allow people to use the room, your theater passed the inspection with flying colors. Congratulations, Mr. Carmel. I'm looking forward to the show tomorrow night."

William was a bomb and Gary had just lit the fuze. The man left. Sarah stayed quiet.

" _Fuck,"_ Will said.

"Shh." Sarah touched his face, but he batted her hand away.

"Don't 'shh' me. I'm allowed to be pissed."

"Of course you are. But you don't need to swear. Please don't make any phone calls until you settle down."

"I'm settled."

"Will you sue Leo?"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because he told me about the code. It was the first thing he brought up when he looked at the plans."

Sarah narrowed her eyes. "How the hell did it get built that way?"

"Don't swear."

"William!"

"I told him I would follow God's plan and accept the consequences."

"Well God screwed up!"

" _How dare you._ We don't know his plan for that room." A wolf-like growl underscored her husband's words. "Now get off my back."

"Don't take this out on me."

"I need some time alone."

"Alone? William, you're always alone!"

"I'm constantly surrounded by people."

"I see you for less than ten minutes a day. You don't spend time with Janie, you don't eat dinner with your family, you're not writing, and whenever I ask about finances, you give me some crap about the numbers not being in. Well here we are! It's done!"

"This is not a discussion I want to have right now; not when I don't have a place for my performers to change."

"Communicate, Will. How much did it cost?"

"I said—"

" _How much?_ If you don't answer me right—"

"Three million."

"Three... _three million_?"

"This has nothing to do with the actual problem I'm facing—"

" _Three million?_ " she repeated.

"There were other expenses. Security, the fence, weather proofing..."

"Other expenses! Of course! Luckily, we budged for that! Right? What happened to five percent for overrun?"

"This isn't unusual, Sarah. We knew it could be more."

"When were you going to tell your wife that we dropped an extra two-hundred-thousand dollars on this little project? That was our life savings! We live off that money! And when were you going to tell me that you approved a layout that couldn't pass inspection?"

"I'll spend more time with Janie. I'll give her piano lessons this fall."

"Your piano doesn't work, remember? It sits in our living room and you use it as a table."

"This doesn't have to be a fight. I'll fix the piano. I'll give Janie lessons. We'll spend more time together as a family. I'll work toward my creative goals. That's what all this work was for."

Sarah sighed and knew that now was an inappropriate time to vent her concerns. William looked devastated. She hugged him. "I'm sorry about this mess. Maybe you're right. Maybe God has a reason."

* * *

Kayla wasn't sick. Hyde knew she wasn't sick. Heck, _William_ probably knew she wasn't sick. Hyde wanted her to see a doctor. He said she lost too much weight. He said she cried in her sleep. But that wasn't true. She was as calm and clear-headed as she had ever been in her life.

She just hated the lie.

William Carmel didn't know God's intentions, and in any other circumstance, she wouldn't claim to either. _But now she did._ She knew God didn't approve of Will's so-called faith. God didn't want that man creating stories, directing plays, or building monuments in his honor. God was not in attendance at the theater tonight because God had no part in that monstrosity.

It was a horrible feeling to be one of two people who knew the truth.

Kayla watched the theater, _so small_ that she could hold out her hand, position the stage between her fingers, pluck it from the Earth, and stifle it like a candle flame. The grand opening was about to being and she listened to the applause through the crack in the living-room window where she stood; _where this all began_.

Hyde was up there too, selling his soul, keeping secrets to expand his enterprise. He came home every day with plans for the new store. He would touch her and she would shy away or placate him with a kiss on the cheek, but she would not make love to a liar. She would not make love to a man who pursued _passion_ at work but not in marriage (but her body screamed for his touch and some nights she woke up wet and ready but her mind couldn't move past _what they did._ They talked about it. Once. He told her that he needed her "in that way" and she asked him to tell the Carmels about the prank. He refused. So did she.)

The stakes in the validity of their lie had multiplied exponentially. Six months ago it was Will who would have been hurt by the truth. Then it was Will and Sarah. Then Will and Sarah and Janie and an architect. Then all those people plus a contractor and construction crew and half the Brandywine subdivision. And now if Kay told the truth, she would invalidate the beliefs and prayers of hundreds of people who left a rainbow of souvenirs at that godless alter. That first article hit the papers and now if her lie was discovered, it would be a public matter. Her parents would know. Her dancers would know. Her business would be ruined. She and Hyde would be banished from Brandywine and Sarah would crawl in a hole and die.

_Kayla didn't give a darn about Will anymore._ He would survive. If she spilled the beans, or if that fourth speaker was discovered hiding behind a dust-bunny or box of cigars, the world would explode in hellfire and William Carmel would still be scuttling around, reigning over the shell-shocked remains of his sad little Brandywine.

The deeper Kayla went, the more she hated that man. It was his fault she couldn't let Hyde please her. It was his fault for believing her voice. What if she told him to sacrifice his child? He would have nailed Janie to a cross! It was his fault for believing the voice the first time, and ignoring the voice of God when she demanded he stop production on that stage. If Will didn't want to play by the rules, Kayla wouldn't either. The waiting would end. The twining madness of sleepless, sexless nights would finally stop.

Fireworks erupted in a display that lit the sky with red and gold droplets, leaving trails of smoke so thick that they muted the heavens and dampened the following display. The pops and booms shook the house, and when the last firework trailed to the stars, exploded, and signaled the start of the show, _the stage became Revelations._ The fifteen-hundred spectators transformed into locusts with heads like horses and teeth like a lions, so loud that their cheers became buzzing and their buzzing could be heard for miles. The locusts were _his_ horde of chirping minions, little devils dressed in their armored Sunday-best. Kayla's dancers would perform soon; not little girls, but angels with trumpets heralding the destruction of the world. Big toothy smiles with blood lipstick; wide, lifeless shark-eyes, and anorexic bodies performing in robotic unison for the legion. The man at the controls—the man Kayla loved—was once a white knight on horseback in a blood-dipped robe. His name meant "faithful and true," but now he was different. Now he was the beast from the Earth; the creature that commanded the world to worship the false prophet. With his technology, he created great and miraculous signs; lights that performed his bidding like fire from the sky; sound that made the world tremble. _Hyde deceived the inhabitance of Earth_. Sarah would be backstage, arms crossed, an idol made of gold; worshiped for her beauty, standing on the sidelines without any knowledge or power in the world, twisting her gold neck to search with gold eyes that beast she married. And she would see it in the shadows behind the seats, its form rising above the myriad— _from the myriad_ —so long and horrible that she wanted to vomit because of what her husband had become, but her throat was gold too. He— _it_ —was taller and wider than the theater, watching from the rear; that red dragon with seven heads and each head was William and its tail wound and curled through the seats among the locusts' flapping. It smelled like gasoline and opium. The crowns on his heads were obsidian and its only movement came from its expanding and contracting chest; copper scales scraping together with every massive breath. Janie, dancing like the wind for the host, dipping and turning and thrusting her hands to the sky in a sacrificial ritual; she would be devoured by the dragon, not in one bite, but slowly—over many years—he would infect her and she would die. William was the dragon who would devour his child. William was the dragon who would lead the world astray.

Kayla realized she was hyperventilating, then fell to the couch face-first and pressed the green accent pillow into her cheeks to create a vacuum of her own carbon. As her heart slowed and breathing calmed, she devised a plan.

William wanted his daughter to dance? Kayla would make sure Janie was the best dang dancer that stage would ever see. Janie would place first in every competition, just like Kayla promised. She would win the bet, and after she proved her worth to William by making Janie a dancing god, _she would tell him the truth_. She would tell him that his work was for nothing. She would tell him that his 'two-point-whatever million dollars' was not invested with some divine guarantee. He could—probably _would_ —lose it all. Kayla would pull herself together, put on a show, then expose Will's foolishness and _it would destroy him_. Sarah would stand by her husband because—bless her soul—that's just what Sarah did. Hyde would open his second store and he would forgive Kayla... but he and Will would never be friends again.

Kayla stood. She wiped her runny nose on her arm. She opened her eyes wide and pressed out the remaining tears. Her plan would take time, but it was the only way to bring down the dragon: teach Janie to dance, then destroy William Carmel.

It's what God wanted.

**FIVE \- Young Love**

(5, 6, 7, 8)

Rihanna again. But that's okay.

The dancer was good; attractive all dressed in black with her creepy modern dance. Rihanna was a good choice; the song had the kind of bass line Chase could walk to; the kind of walk that made him feel at ease with his job; the kind of walk where his feet hit the ground on the beat and made him feel on top of the world. The song thumped from overhead with the amphitheater's own speakers. _Venues never have their own sound equipment!_ But then again, most venues weren't outside.

_This girl's pretty cute._ The clipboard said her name was Kennedy. Chase never met a black girl named Kennedy. But she was good. And she was cute. _And she might just exit his side of the stage_. If she did, that meant she liked him. If she finished her dance and walked off the other side, that meant she had no interest in dating him at all and he could forget about her forever.

Chase peered through the green curtain and watched the judges. How weird to see them bathed in sunlight! They bopped their heads to Rihanna. Lorrie sported her trademark smile and nodded in excited approval as she scribbled comments about Kennedy's dance without ever looking at the paper. ( _Phenomenal! Effortless! Be mindful of your footing!_ ) The other two judges were attentive, but not as exuberant as Lorrie. ( _Good work. Practice your footing._ )

Sixty-eight people were in the audience. Pretty good turn out for teen solos.

_Come on Kennedy, choose my side._ Chase wasn't actually superstitious. He knew that the wing in which a dancer left the stage had nothing to do with their interest in him. It was just a mind game. He could stop if he wanted, but the games passed the time.

Chase tugged at his pants. He forgot a belt today and they kept falling down. His black Sparkle Motion polo was tucked in, but it hardly helped.

_(5, 6, 7, 8)_ The Rihanna song ended abruptly (like most songs that were cut to meet the time limit). "Work it Kennedy!" someone yelled, spurring moderate applause. Kennedy held her final pose, then spun around— _away from Chase_ —exited stage-left and fell with joyous relief into the arms of her teacher.

She wasn't that cute anyway.

Chase was always surrounded by girls. Right now he counted thirteen. There were usually more; usually practicing their routine in unexaggerated bursts or stretching their limbs on the ground. Each girl had to sign in with him. They gave their name and number, then he phoned the lineup to April May. April May was the announcer. Her head never bopped. She didn't have time to bop. She had to deal with Chase and the judges and tally the scores and announce the names and play the music.

"Next up we have competitive hip-hop, age fifteen. Please welcome Haley Jordan performing 'Poker Face.'" April May had an adorable voice. Probably why Pauline hired her as the announcer.

Back stage, Haley Jordan's expression was one of complete horror. Chase studied her mannerisms; breath held, eyes unblinking, teeth grinding circles, body motionless except twitching fingers at her side and the gentle sway of white beaded earrings. And then _(5, 6, 7, 8)_ the music started—Lady Gaga—and Haley came to life. "Do your sassy walk, Hay-Leeee!" squealed her teacher. As the girl's face emerged from the shadows of backstage and into the sunlight, her expression transformed. Open. Alive. Smiling. Her earrings jangled and her energy was focused on her audience. ( _Beautiful expressions. Cute costume!_ )

"Sir?"

Chase looked down. It was a little girl dressed in a yellow tutu with a red vest, yellow hat, painted blush, and a paper nose that stuck five inches from her face. He knelt to her level. "What can I do for you, sweetheart?"

"My song is 'I've Got No Strings.'"

Chase flipped through the setlist. "How old are you, hon?"

"Seven."

"And what's your studio?"

"Miss Kayla's Dance Studio."

"It doesn't look like minis go on for another hour. Is your teacher around?"

"She's in the audience."

"Well, you go tell Miss Kayla that you can take off that nose for a bit longer. Come back in an hour and I'll remember your name, okay?"

She nodded. Chase watched her weave through the older girls who were too focused on Haley's performance to notice the little Pinocchio.

_Ah, solos._ Solos were boring. Every so often a girl would chat him up or play connect-the dots with the moles on his face. One girl said his moles looked like constellations and drew a big-dipper on his cheek with Sharpie. "Can you dance?" was the most common question. No, he couldn't dance. He sucked at dancing. _Quit asking._ The senior guys would ruffle his brown hair. They would sign in and ask him how it felt to be "knee deep."

Everybody loved Chase, but he was a novelty. He was a novelty to the older dancers who couldn't believe a fourteen-year-old could handle such a stressful job. It wasn't his fault that Pauline saw potential in her son. She hired him when he was twelve to do the scoring. He began stage managing when he was thirteen. Of course, the official paperwork said he was sixteen and only worked part time... not the thirteen hours per day he was working now. But he liked it. He liked Rihanna and Lady Gaga and the rhythm of the work. He liked the girls. He liked his co-workers. He liked watching Pauline freak out. He _didn't_ like vomit. He hated vomit. Every show there was a girl who couldn't take the pressure and she'd explode on stage and he'd have to clean it up. That was the best part about this new Michigan stage: if somebody barfed, it would be in a bush. He didn't have to clean bushes.

Back at home, Chase was a normal eighth-grader. For the springtime shows, Pauline pulled him out of his Friday classes for work. Teachers hated it, but in the end it was only about ten missed days per year. They'd get over it.

Haley twirled. ( _Seamless movement. Very organic!_ ) Her red hair twirled too and Chase watched her left earring slip from its hole, hit the ground, and scatter. Beads everywhere. _Darnit!_ He grabbed the broom. He grabbed the phone. "I see it," he told April May, then hung up before she could respond. He moved to the sidelines and waited for the song to finish. _(5, 6, 7, 8)_ and Haley grabbed her empty left ear and ran off crying. _His side!_ Chase flashed her a smile and said, "You did great, hon." She inhaled deeply and smiled with mascara-drenched lips.

April May played some catchy "in-between music" as Chase sucked in his chest and started across the dance floor. Every step had to land squarely between the wooden seams. His legs were too short to do this gracefully, and he wondered if anybody in the audience noticed his awkward strides. He walked as evenly as possible while weaving the broom back and forth to catch the beads. If he missed one it could end up in some poor girl's knee cap. _Ouch._

"Next up we have recreational lyrical, age twelve. Please welcome Amanda Casagrande performing 'Fireflies.'"

(5, 6, 7, 8)

The northern April weather was no match for the massive heaters twirling pink ribbons above Chase's head. He set the broom beside his podium and relaxed in the warmth. _An outside theater for a dance competition._ He finally saw why Pauline approved of such a crazy idea. It was fun. It was exciting! The owner even provided a ten-thousand-dollar "no-rain guarantee." Not that it mattered this weekend; the weather was crystal.

The whole crew arrived yesterday. He and Pauline and seven other staff members flew into the Gerald R. Ford International Airport from Memphis and set up before the show began at four. They assembled the fiberglass set pieces, ran cables for the audio and video, ran phone lines, and assembled the judges' table and the announcer board while Pauline worked with the owner to adjust the lights and to find the best spot for the break room. Pauline was furious when the man told her there wasn't a chorus room. It was nearly a deal-breaker, but he agreed to pay for tents for the girls to change in.

The owner's name was Mr. Carmel. Chase had to arch backward to see the man's speckled beard; brown and blond and grey all mixed together. But he was nice. And he was proud of his stage.

It was last night during a teen duet of the song _The Devil Went Down to Georgia_ when Mr. Carmel muttered, "These girls are awful, eh?"

Chase responded, "If you're gonna to dance to this song, you need to be amazing. It's supposed to be a duel, right? 'Being good' is in the nature of the song. These girls are bland at best."

"They should lose points for biting off more than they can chew," Mr. Carmel said.

"Or maybe they should be rewarded for reaching for the stars."

The duet concluded. People clapped.

The man held out his hand. "I like your work. I'm glad to have your business." Chase took his hand. It felt like leather. When he pulled away, there was a fifty-dollar bill in his palm.

"I appreciate it, Mr. Carmel," he said, then pocketed the tip and returned to work.

_(5, 6, 7, 8)_ The _Fireflies_ girl exited on his side ( _Hold your pose when the song ends! Very interesting dance!)_ , but she wasn't very attractive so Chase shrugged off the compliment. Her teacher was Miss Alice, late fifties with dyed black hair and a Liza Minnelli tattoo flexing in a murk of liver marks. Her face was creased from years of disappointment... the _Fireflies_ girl might have added another wrinkle. "Not your best, Mandy. You'll do better next time."

Chase yawned. Three in the afternoon and six more hours until the awards ceremony... seven hours until he could go back to the hotel. He parted the curtain and stared at April May. She looked chipper. Must be the sunlight. She brought the microphone to her lips and made the next announcement. "Next up we have competitive lyrical, age twelve. Please welcome Janie Carmel performing 'Ave Maria.'"

(5, 6, 7, 8)

* * *

"Damnit," she said. " _Shit._ "

Chase turned around and eyed the vulgar girl. Her head was down. The strap of her white dress hung across her chest, pulling down the corner of her top and exposing the side of her chest. "Ave Maria" began playing over the speakers. No one was on stage.

"Oh shit, oh shit!" said the girl again. Her hands fumbled over the broken strap.

Chase grabbed the phone. "April May? Wardrobe malfunction. Hold this song and jump to number three-six-two, 'The Garden.'" Chase dropped the phone, bolted past the damsel in distress and shouted, "Three-six-two? 'The Garden?' Hello? Three-six-two? Ladies?" A girl's head poked from the group of anxious girls like a prairie dog. "You're up, sweetheart," Chase said and the girl scrambled to the front lines.

"Damnit, I'm so sorry," Janie said when Chase returned. She held the strap in her teeth. Her elbow arched across her head as she tried to keep her chestnut hair away from the problem area.

The girl finally tilted her head and caught Chase with the brownest eyes he had ever seen. They were huge. _They literally sparkled_. She had freckles on her face, not heavy freckles, but a dusting of freckles elegantly mirrored across the exposed side of her chest. Across her left cheek—

"Hello? A little help?"

Chase was staring. "Of course," he stuttered. "Hold the strap right here. I've got this." He put his arm around Janie's back and led her to his podium. He flipped open the plastic bin marked "Stage Manager" and removed a small container marked "First Aid."

"I'm not sick," she said.

"It's where I keep my— Ah, there we go." Chase held up the Holy Grail of dance supplies, a silver safety pin.

April May called the next act but Chase barely noticed. _"Five, six, seven, eight,"_ he instinctively mouthed and pinched open the needle.

"Wha'd you say?"

"Me? Nothin'."

"You whispered something."

"Hold your hair back. I'll be careful."

"Poke me with that and I'll have you fired."

Chase held the pin between his lips. "You 'eem 'ressed."

"Huh?"

He pulled out the pin and poked it through the bottom strap. "I said, you seem stressed. Hand me the other half." Janie pulled the strap from her lips and Chase took it gently in his fingers. Her skin was smooth. When his hand brushed her shoulder, he shuddered.

"I'm never like this," she said.

"Like what?"

"Stressed. I'm never like this."

"Happens all the time."

"I heard my name. The strap fell off—"

"Better now than on stage, eh?"

"—and my song started playing."

"'Ave Maria.' Good choice."

"I know."

"I'm gonna add one more pin to be safe. You don't want to flash the whole auditorium."

"There is no auditorium."

"Oh yeah. Forgot about that."

"How many songs till I go on?"

"As many as it takes for me to fix this. Why?"

"I'm flustered. This is lyrical. I can't be flustered for lyrical."

"I'll tell you what..."

"What?"

"If you're nice to me, I'll take my time."

Janie walked away. Her strap snapped from Chase's fingers. "I'll go on next," she said.

"Hold it! I'm not done!"

"Then finish it."

Janie stood at the edge of the curtain. The sun was still high but fell at the perfect angle, igniting her lace dress and exposing the dark form of her body. She was _perfect_.

Chase shook away the angelic vision and stepped toward her. He worked his fingers around the straps and pulled them together. "Why so crabby?"

"I need to do a good job."

"Everybody needs to do a good job."

"No. I actually need to do a good job."

"What makes you so special?"

"My teacher's crazy. My arch-nemesis is in the same category as me, and her boyfriend—a guy who tried to rape me—is watching."

Chase worked the second pin through the straps and pinched them together. "Wow. You _do_ need to do a good job. What's her name?"

"Who, Miss Kayla?"

"Your arch-nemesis."

"Tracy Cavenaugh. She's with Miss Alice."

Chase thought carefully before asking his next question. "What happened with Tracy's boyfriend?"

"Why would I tell you?"

"I— I don't know." _Bad decision, Chase._

"The Garden" was winding down. Janie's strap was fixed.

"You could say thank you," he said.

The girl had been staring intently at the stage, but now she tilted her head, just slightly so the sunlight accentuated the pink blemish on her left cheek. "If someone offered you a hundred dollars on a dare, would you kiss my scar?"

Chase thought about her question... then replied softly, "I'd kiss your scar for free."

The song cut out and Janie's head snapped back to the stage.

"Next up we have competitive lyrical, age twelve. Please welcome back Janie Carmel performing 'Ave Maria.'"
Chase didn't realize it, but when the song began, " _5, 6, 7, 8"_ never crossed his mind.

* * *

She was sarcastic. She had a superiority complex. To be honest, she was a bit of a butthead. But when Janie Carmel danced, _she soared_. She danced with rhythm, form and beauty that Chase had never witnessed in two years on the job. There was no hesitation between moves ( _spectacular precision!_ ), but her form was beyond precise. ( _Genuine eye contact! Dramatic expression! Magnificent!_ ) She was attentive. Responsive. She let the music—that German woman's swelling voice—guide her body; flawless with soft muscles and curves in all the right places.

And then it happened. Twice. And it's a good thing it happened twice because Chase didn't believe it the first time. _Janie looked at him._ Her eyes found his eyes in a theater of hundreds. And even though she only held them for a moment, _it was enough._ The pigeons were no longer pigeons. They were doves and they fell from the rafters in long swoops, nearly hitting the dance floor then climbing back up and over the audience.

It began with a single flower. Right at the base of Janie's foot, it sprouted with bright yellow petals and a long stem. Then—as she ran from one side of the stage to the other—the flowers grew beneath her toes sprouting color-wheel puddles of life. Janie raised her arms ( _Dynamic arm movements! Striking form!_ ) and as they raised, they pulled ivy from the floor, across the proscenium arch and around the curved ceiling of the bandshell.

The stage trembled under Chase's feet and grey stone columns fell from the ceiling onto the stage. Plaster fell in chunks and littered the floor but Janie didn't care. She danced between the new structures and through the plaster dust, then ivy from the ceiling spiraled down the columns and flowers grew there too. Dandelion puffs rose with the breeze and twirled around Chase's silly grin. The warm wind blew Janie's hair and rustled her skirt and those safety-pins tugged and pulled but never popped.

When Janie's feet left the ground and didn't land, Chase bolted from the right-wing, leapt into the air, and caught her. _Those eyes again._ Transfixed. Inches from his and their noses touched as they spun in the air. ( _Fierce duet-chemistry! Effervescent flying ability!_ ) People pointed. They gasped. The bandshell split from the top and slid apart so Janie and Chase soared past the catwalk and onto the roof. The sky was orange and green and purple and tan and all kinds of colors that the sky shouldn't be. Their landing was gentle. Chase's toes hit the roof first and he pulled Janie by the hand. The moment her foot touched down, ( _Exquisite landing!_ ) Janie continued her dance in a dizzying array of figure-eights. Chase spun and twisted and tried to keep up but her speed was incredible ( _Terrific!_ ).

The seats—so tiny down there—were filled with spectators. The picnic area was overflowing and bodies spilled past the fence barrier and covered the entire top of the hill. More and more people arrived until the visible portion of the Earth was covered in a swaying blanket of silent spectators. Chase grabbed Janie's hand to slow her spinning. He pulled her close. He dipped her. Her dimples pulled back to form a wry grin, then she wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips.

The multitude was gone. The doves were pigeons again. Chase's feet were on the ground, right in their place at the sidelines.

_But Janie was still captivating._ With every move, she proved that she was better than her adversaries. If Tracy and her boyfriend were watching, Chase knew they were scared.

"Ave Maria" was coming to a close and Janie began to spin. Her arms made a perpendicular "O" from her chest. One spin. Two. The audience cheered.

On the third spin her eyes locked onto Chase. _She was using him as her anchor!_ Then again for number four. Then five. The audience cheered louder. "Work it, Janie!" "You go girl!" "Shake it!"

Six twirls. _Seven._ Her cheeks turned red but her expression was solid. Only one spin left... but Chase couldn't stop himself. When her eyes met his for number eight, he flashed the biggest smile he could muster and winked. He didn't mean for it to happen, but an invisible dart shot from that wink and hit Janie in the forehead.

She wobbled like a dying top. She fell. And that twisting velocity pulled her down so quickly that her body was still spinning when it hit the ground. ( _Ouch! Don't try routines that are above your skill level! Start with five turns and work up to eight!_ )

Janie clumsied herself up and struck her final pose. She scowled. Then smiled. Then marched off stage.

* * *

Janie exited stage-right. _His side!_ But she didn't look in love. She looked pissed.

"Why the hell would you do that?"

"I didn't mean—"

"You threw me off!"

"I—"

"I was perfect! My form was _perfect_! And what did you do? You wink at me! What did you think would happen?"

"I had no idea that it would—"

"Oh my God-ness. What happened?" Janie's teacher bounded through the assemblage of dancers. She wore a brown dress and an open Northface jacket. Her face was white. "How did you fall? You never fall. How did you fall?"

"Kayla!" Janie commanded as if she was talking to a poodle. "Chill." She worked her hair into a ponytail then nodded at Chase. "The stage manager threw me off."

The woman spun around. "What did you do?"

"I'm so sorry," Chase said. His cheeks were hot. _He never screwed up like this._ "I was just watching. She was incredible."

"He distracted me and I fell," Janie said.

"She wants to re-dance," Kayla demanded. "Call the judges and tell them she wants to re-dance."

"No!" Chase yelled. "You don't want to dance again, trust me."

"It was your fault," Miss Kayla said. "I danced with Sparkle Motion since I was four. I know the rules."

"Miss, you don't want to do that. The judges hate when we get behind schedule. Janie's good, but she'll be more self-conscious if she tries again, and that'll show in her performance. Trust me. If she re-dances, her score will go down."

"Then what do we do?" Miss Kayla asked with her arms at her side. "She scowled! The judges are going to tear her apart."

Chase hoped Pauline didn't come backstage. He could fix this if his mother didn't get involved. "Janie was amazing," he said again. "And the judges know that. They won't count off for a silly fall at the end of a dance."

This was a huge lie. The judges would definitely remove points, especially for the bad attitude. But Chase had a plan.

Miss Kayla walked in rapid circles. Her bare legs jerked with each step as if the stage was melting the soles of her shoes. "Janie? Do you want to try again?"

"I can't believe I'm saying this... but I'll listen to the kid." She glared at Chase. "I wouldn't want to annoy the judges."

"What happened?" Another voice. A man. It was Mr. Carmel. _Why did he care if Janie fell?_

Miss Kayla turned and shielded her eyes as if one look at the man would sear them out.

"I'm fine, Dad."

Dad? _Mr. Carmel was Janie's Dad?_ Some luck!

"Your kicks were low." He held Janie's chin and lifted her face. "You fell behind the beat on the second verse. Are you stiff?" He looked at Kayla, "Did she stretch before she danced?"

"Of course I stretched," Janie said. "I'm fine. I'll do better in tap."

"She'll do fine in tap," Kayla reiterated without looking up.

The man let go of his daughter's face. "This theater was built for both of you. I expect better than 'fine.'"

Chase was glad that he was no longer involved in the conversation. There was something odd about this dynamic.

Mr. Carmel and Miss Kayla began to argue. Janie looked at Chase. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw an apologetic smile inch across her face. He pursed his lips to the side as a sign of understanding, but Janie's attention was suddenly drawn away. Chase followed her gaze and saw Tracy approaching. He knew it was Tracy because she looked like an arch-nemesis with straight black hair cut into a choppy mullet. Her costume was green, revealing, and supported a chest that was far larger than Chase found attractive. She had none of Janie's elegance.

Tracy ignored Chase. She ignored Mr. Carmel and Miss Kayla. She walked straight past Janie with a sweet-as-can be smile and uttered with no sincerity at all, "Nice dance..." The last words were unmistakable, _"Scar Face."_

_(5, 6, 7, 8)_ Chase couldn't look at Janie. If she seemed hurt, he would cry. If she seemed vengeful, he wouldn't do what he was about to do.

He flipped up his clipboard. He scanned the dance numbers. Tracy was next. He grabbed the phone. "April May? I need to sweep again; there's a pin on the floor." He hung up.

Janie left the stage with her entourage and didn't look back.

Chase wasn't doing this because he was in love; he was doing this because he wronged a girl and he had to make it right. And maybe because—in the span of ten minutes—Janie's arch-nemesis became _his_ arch-nemesis. He scavenged through his stage manager bin and found a cardboard box of resin powder that he kept for ballet emergencies. Resin was dangerous without pointe shoes. It made the floor sticky. Slide on it wrong and it could send a dancer soaring. He scooped a modest handful into his pocket. Then another. Then he walked to the sideline and stood beside Tracy with his chin on the handle of his push broom. She was two inches taller than him. _Whatever._ His growth spurt was due any day now.

_(5, 6, 7, 8)_ The other girl finished to polite applause and exited stage-left.

"I'm going to make sure it's clean for you," he said to Tracy.

"Thanks," she replied.

Chase took off. He started at the back and worked his broom from wing to wing. ( _Great enthusiasm! Watch your lines!_ ) On his trips away from Tracy—when his left side was hidden from the judges and audience—he reached into his pocket and sprinkled resin on the wooden floor.

After two years and a couple dozen shows, Chase and April May had their timing perfected. The moment his foot was off stage, she made the announcement. "Next up we have competitive lyrical, age thirteen. Please welcome Tracy Cavenaugh performing 'The Climb.'"

Technically, Tracy was good. But her smile was cut from stone and Chase felt her mind anticipating every move. Her choreography was the scary part. The moves fell together with ease. Nothing seemed above her skill level. ( _Primal choreography! Lovely song choice!_ ) Her toe-nails were green to match the dress and they scrunched and flexed and smeared circles in the wood and Chase watched them with bated sickness in his belly.

_She had to leap._ This was lyrical! Dancers always leap in lyrical. Or she could spin. A leap or a spin would do it! Up and around and the judges nodded and Tracy racked up points. Lorrie wore her joyful smile and scrawled her gleeful notes. The other judges seemed pleased.

Tracy was pure evil, _but she was precise._ And unless something—

Before Chase completed his thought, it happened. Tracy leapt. She soared. Her green-painted toe hit the floor. _It hit the resin and it stuck_. Her foot planted securely on the sticky wood as her body continued its forward trajectory. Her ankle bent in a way that Chase was pretty sure it wasn't supposed to, and Tracy "arch-nemesis" Cavenaugh fell on her face.

Miss Alice taught her ladies well. Tracy stood in a single, fluid motion and continued the dance with the same stone smile. When the song ended _(5, 6, 7, 8)_ and her body slipped from sunlight to shadow, she began to limp.

"I thought you swept!" She yelled. "The floor is sticky!" She collapsed and massaged her ankle.

Before Chase could provide fake consolation, Miss Alice moved through the backstage mayhem with nonchalant strides, then bent down to her injured student. "Does it hurt?"

"My foot stuck."

"Can you do it again?"

"I think so."

Miss Alice looked to Chase. "She wants to re-dance."

"Of course," Chase said. "I'll call it in now."

As Chase swept the resin off the stage in preparation for Tracy's second attempt, he saw Janie in the front row, legs crossed, arms extended behind the neighboring seats, smirking. And finally, she winked back.

* * *

(And a 1, 2, 3, 4)

Chase's heart thumped with the base. His breathing fell in line with the melody. His steps were syncopated; every third was a skip.

It was night. The white spotlight bathed the stage in blinding surreality while the backstage stayed lit with a dozen yellow bulbs.

Twenty minutes until awards. That meant one thing: large groups. Large groups consisted of twenty-five or more dancers with an unlimited cap. Some groups had twenty-five. Others had a-hundred-and-fifty. The wings of this amphitheater were gargantuan, so the dancers could pile inside when they were in costume; and they did.

Chase wove effortlessly through a chattering mass of hippies; boys and girls dressed for a seventies medley. There were zombies dressed in cheesecloth with thick black-and-white makeup and blood-gashed necks and limbs. (The judges hated that stuff, but Chase kept his mouth shut.) Another group was dressed like angels and demons. They were scheduled to dance last, and Chase was constantly yelling at them to stay out of the way of the other dancers.

His shirt was untucked. A gaff-tape belt held up his pants with a gnarled bow. His hair stood in all directions but he didn't care. His job was to keep the show moving; to get the groups and props on and off stage without any tykes getting trampled in the process. Stage-dads were there to help, proudly sporting pink and purple shirts with the name of their child's studio bedazzled across the chest.

"Hippies, you're next! Zombies, stay back! Angels and demons, if I have to tell you again, you're all disqualified!" Chase still had to chat with April May before the ceremony. He had to fix Janie's score. But there was hardly time to breathe during large groups, much less to convince a responsible woman to cheat.

A pudgy bluebird tapped Chase on the shoulder. "We're ready!"

"And what's your song, hon?"

"Rockin' Robin."

"Are all the dancers ready?"

"I don't know. I think so!"

"It says here you guys were supposed to go on three dances ago. Hurry 'em up for me, okay?"

"Mmkay!" The chubby bluebird nodded and fluttered away. _Feathers._ That's all he needed tonight.

Chase removed a Snickers bar from his back pocket, tore it open, and took a bite. _Thank goodness for free concessions._

Pauline was making the rounds, setting fires wherever she stepped. Chase couldn't help but think that his mother loved chaos; that pandemonium was her soil and uncertainty was her rain. As much as she condemned disorganization, she reveled in her ability to function in the discord; to create structure, glamour, and profit from twenty-year-old fiberglass backdrops, a ragtag crew, and some AV cable from Radio Shack.

_(5, 6, 7, 8)_ Twenty-five guys dressed in orange radioactive suits bowed and exited the stage to squeals, cat calls, and screams from the crowd of hundreds.

"Hippies stay back! Let the boys off the stage!" The group shuffled backwards and the radioactive guys jumped and high-fived a good performance.

"Next up we have competitive production, all ages. Please welcome 'Little Hippies' performing 'Beatles Medley.'"

_(5, 6, 7, 8)_ The clichéd hippies took the stage, bandanas around their heads, beads around their necks, and round sunglasses pinned to their heads.

It was now or never. Chase dashed through the zombies and grabbed the phone.

"April May?"

"Why can't these teachers label their damn disks correctly? Is it that hard to use a marker and write your number on it?"

"April, listen to me. You know that girl who fell this afternoon?"

"Lots of girls fall, sweetie."

"Janie Carmel. 'Ave Maria.' Dressed in white. Act number seven-five-seven."

"What about her?"

"Find her score. Then find the score of Tracy Cavenaugh. Act number three-nine-zero. 'The Climb.' She fell too."

"When did they dance?"

"Teen solos. Lyrical."

Hundreds of Rockin' Robins made it backstage leaving a rainbow of feathers in their wake. The blue bird skipped back to Chase.

"We're ready!"

"Thanks, hon. You go on after the zombies, okay?"

She nodded and fluttered away to tell the flock.

"April? Did you find them?"

"Got 'em."

"Who has the higher score?"

"Tracy by a hair. Why?"

_It was Janie's scowl that put her behind._ "Add a point to Janie's score."

"Ha. I need to work, sweetie."

"Make Janie's score better than Tracy's. Please."

"Are you serious?"

"Deadly."

"I can't alter scores. Your mom'll cut my feet off. I'm a dancer, sweetie, I need my feet."

Chase lowered his voice but spoke clearly. "Remember that time I walked behind the snack tent and caught you going down on that San Antonio dance teacher? I swore he was gay. I mean, he taught girls to dance for goodness sake—"

"You wouldn't."

"I never waved it in your face, but now I need a favor."

"I can't change the forms. Pauline can tell."

"The judges use pencils."

"So?"

"It's called an eraser, April. You move it back and forth and the writing comes off."

"I know what an eraser is, you little twirp. But I'm not risking my job because you have a crush on a dancer."

"It's not a crush. She's better than Tracy."

"It's cheating. I have to go."

"I'll tell Pauline."

"No, sweetie, you won't. You're too good." April May hung up. _Crap._

Stage-dads from the Rockin' Robin studio barreled their way through the zombies with plywood clouds, fabric sky, and a human-sized nest made out of sticks. Chase yelled, "Zombies! Out of the way! Watch the props!"

She was standing by the podium with her hands behind her back. _Janie_. She wore the same red and black sequenced dress from her outstanding tap number. Her hair was crimped.

Oh, how he wanted to talk to Janie! He wanted to tell her that he tried to save her score, but that she was going to lose to Tracy anyway. He wanted to tell her that he'd make it up to her; that they could still take down Tracy Cavenaugh. But the zombies were mixing with the angels and demons and now the previous groups were coming back to prepare for awards.

If Chase couldn't talk to Janie now, at least he could show off his authority. He put his arms in the air and raised his voice to the heavens. "Bird ladies! Move to the right! Angels and demons, move to the left! Zombies are dancing next, so move forward, but stay away from the stage! The hippies have run-arounds and I don't want a zombie-hippie pileup back here! If you have props, put them against the far wall! That means you, Rockin' Robin dads! You'll have all the time you need to set up when the hippies are finished!" With his arms still raised, Chase felt like that dude who parted seas. "Now go!" he commanded and the groups instantly filtered to their appropriate places. He glanced at Janie from the corner of his eye, but her expression was impossible to read with light from the yellow bulbs.

He waited until his bidding was fulfilled, then marched toward Janie. "Hey again," he said.

She licked the tips of her fingers and pawed down a strand of his hair. "Hey there."

* * *

It was settled. Chase would perform his regular cleanup duties. He would eat at Chili's with Pauline and the crew. He would go back to the hotel room with video-guy-Hank. Then he would tell Hank he was going for a walk and he would return to the stage. The Holiday Inn was only a few blocks from the hill... heck, the stage was visible from his room.

Janie would meet him at midnight. It was a date.

Chase relaxed in a folding chair. Large groups were finished two minutes ahead of schedule. Now the dancers, teachers, and parents were on the stage taking pictures, mingling, and preparing for the ceremony. Stupid April May would be busy freaking out, making sure the scores were tallied and printed in the proper order for Pauline to announce. _Stupid April May couldn't do him one simple favor._ And she was right, he was too nice to bring up the San Antonio incident.

Poor Janie. Her dad would be so disappointed in her... and Miss Kayla would blame Chase.

Pauline was dressed in a floor-length flower-print dress and her silver hair was perched on her shoulder pads. Chase would never call his mother fat, but she was definitely big-boned. Mr. Carmel was a step behind her, dressed like a hobo in a green blazer and jeans. He scratched his beard and munched a handful of sunflower seeds while Pauline prattled quietly.

"See, Will... I liked it the old way. _The competitive way._ Gold was best. Silver was good. Bronze was okay. And if you didn't get a trophy, you weren't a good dancer. Go home. Work your ass off. Come back next year. But then our competitors started giving out the platinum trophy. Then the double platinum! Now "bronze" is synonymous with a horrible performance, but every dancer still goes home with a trophy, even if they suck. Which competition would you rather have your kid dance in? One where they might be considered a failure, or one where they'll win every time? So what did we do? We conformed. In fact, not only did we conform, we introduced the triple platinum trophy! That's how I work, Will. You want to make the kiddie's feel good? Fine. Sparkle Motion is first and foremost _a business_. If a triple platinum award goes against my values; so be it. We'll raise a generation of pushover crybabies, but at least I'm still running the largest dance competition in the world." Pauline scrambled Chase's hair. "Right, Mr. Manager?"

"Uh huh," Chase said and scanned the stage for his girl.

"I admire your business skills," Mr. Carmel said.

"All that triple platinum nonsense..." Pauline continued, "that's just for regionals. But at nationals? I play it old school. Only the double and triple platinum acts from regionals are invited to attend. Could I make more money by extending the invitation to platinum and gold? Absolutely. But at that point, it's about the competition. It's in me, Will. I need to see winners and I need to see losers. And I rank 'em too. Forty acts in senior Lyrical Jazz? I take the scores and I number the dances one through forty in order of how well they dance. The top three acts get trophies; bronze, silver, gold. The rest get zilch. No platinums. It is..." she paused and looked down. "Chase, what's that word the kids use?"

"Epic," he muttered.

" _Epic,_ " she said.

"Tell me the numbers again for this weekend." Will said.

"Seven-hundred-and-thirteen dancers in nine-hundred-and-forty-four acts," Pauline said with her chin raised. "And this is just a Michigan regional."

Will nodded. "Small potatoes compared to nationals. What can we do to get your business for mid-America?"

Pauline shook her head. "We've been at the same Chicago-land theater for twenty years, my friend. That won't change without an act of God. Besides, I can't have twenty-five-hundred acts under threat of rain."

A new woman approached with elegant strides, then wrapped her arm around Mr. Carmel's back. _It was Janie's mom._ The woman pecked her husband's cheek, and he responded by squeezing her butt right in front of Chase.

"I'll change your mind, Pauline," he said. "Maybe not this year, maybe not next, but you'll realize how boring your old Chicago theater is and you'll come crawling back for nationals."

"Bah! You don't need me, Will. Your theater's only been open, what, six months? And you've already had two sold out concerts and a couple plays? All that with three winter months in between! Naw, you're doing well without ol' Pauline." She punched him in the arm. "Oh, you'll love this..." She slapped him again. "We were at the DC show last weekend and a woman walks up to me on our last night. This lady has the balls to ask me how I feel about the objectification of women!"

"Oh boy," Will said and threw back his head.

"She asks me if I ever feel guilty for turning girls into objects."

"What did you say?" asked Janie's mom.

"Well, I explained that the girls weren't forced to be there. In fact, they were paying _me_ to dance! A hundred-and-fifty bucks per solo! I said, 'If you want to call it objectification, go talk to the girls! But you can't yank them off that stage if you tried. They love it too much.' But that wasn't the good part."

"What happened?" Will asked. His face was gleaming.

"I turned the tables on her. I said, 'Ma'am, I think _you're_ the one treating them like objects.' The lady looked at me all confused, so I said, 'You're assuming that women can't decide if they want to dance in a competition or not; that they're too stupid to understand that they'll be performing in front of an audience; that they can't decide for _themselves_ what attire will make them feel comfortable. You presume that you're qualified enough to step in and tell these helpless little girls that they shouldn't be doing what they love!' And this lady, she just scoffs! Turns around and walks away. Bad for business? Maybe. But what else could I say?"

"You know what I would have said?" Mr. Carmel asked.

Pauline's eyes lit up. "Do tell."

"I would have asked her why it's always ugly women who complain about objectification!"

Pauline lost it. She heaved great big, belly-grabbing laughs. Janie's mom nudged Mr. Carmel in the side and whispered, "Not funny," but the damage was done.

Chase closed his eyes and wondered why he was still sitting in a folding chair listening to adults banter. He mentally pushed away the sound of their clatter and let the hopes of _midnight_ flood his mind. Janie wasn't his first love interest, but tonight would be his first real date. Would they kiss? Chase kissed plenty of girls, but none of them actually kissed him back. He was a loser at school. He knew it, but it never really bothered him. Maybe Janie could see his good qualities. Maybe she could see past the fact that he talked a lot, that he had too many moles, that he played games in his mind, that he unconsciously squeezed his eyes shut when he was nervous, that his mother was overbearing and rude, and that his best friends were his Sparkle Motion coworkers.

Just as his mind was getting to the good fantasies, Miss Kayla walked up. Instead of standing with the adults, she slouched into the chair beside Chase and sucked a big gulp from a plastic water bottle.

"Hey Mr. Chase Woodstock," she groaned.

"Hey there Miss Kayla."

She offered him her bottle and he took a sip. "How do you do this every week?" she asked. "How do you manage all these kids? I only have sixty-five, but they nearly killed me today."

"It was an honor working with your new studio," he said. "I'm sure you guys'll get plenty of invites to nationals."

"Oh goodness, I hope so. But only one actually matters..." She took her bottle back and sipped it. "Where's my husband? He said he'd sit backstage with me. Maybe you should be my husband, Chase. You seem like a good guy."

This wasn't his first marriage proposal from a much older dance teacher. "I admit I'm infatuated with you Miss Kayla, but I am only fourteen, and I do have a girlfriend."

"A girlfriend? Tell me she's not a dancer! They'll only break your heart."

"Uh oh. She's a dancer!"

"Back in Tennessee?"

"From here."

Miss Kayla's eyes widened and she nudged Chase. "Which studio?"

Chase nudged back. "Yours."

Miss Kayla already knew, as if she only had a single student. Her top lip sucked in the lower and the wells of her eyes took the shadows of the night. Her voice fell to a sinful undertone, "Stay away from her, Chase. She'll cause you nothing but hurt. Do you understand?"

Chase didn't know how they got there, but his eyes were wide.

"Dealing with that family... Teaching that girl to dance... Tell me, Mr. Stage Manager Chase, how exactly does a dance teacher instruct a child who has surpassed her in talent? Huh? How? And if Janie doesn't receive 'Top In Category' for every dance tonight..."

"What'll happen?" Chase asked.

Miss Kayla's eyes flicked and danced around the stage as if Janie was everywhere. "Do you know why she does it? Do you know why she dances? Do you know why she practices until her toes bleed? I won't tell you. But it is not because she loves dance. Even good things can devour us." Kayla wiped a line of sweat from her red-freckled head. "There's a thin line between hobby and obsession..." Her voice trailed off.

Chase was pretty sure he read that line on a novelty sign at a sandwich shop, but the intensity of Kayla's voice frightened him. He searched her eyes for a clue to the darkness, but came up with nothing.

April May arrived backstage with a man dressed in a pink polo. April was panting when she handed the stapled score sheets to Pauline, and the preppy man bent down to hug Miss Kayla. Any trace of menace that Chase saw in the woman vanished with that hug.

"Just in time, sugar-plumb!" Miss Kayla stood and rubbed noses with her husband.

Pauline scanned the scores and said, "Call it." April nodded and scurried away to make the announcement. "Stage manager?"

Chase mustered up his deepest authority and stepped onto the front edge of the stage. April May's voice came over the speaker system for the last time. "Alright, ladies and gentlemen, the scores have been tallied and the award ceremony is about to begin! Our stage manager, Mr. Chase, will help you find a seat on the dance floor, and then we'll get started!"

With that announcement, the wings and front steps birthed children like an open spider sack. Kids screamed and bolted for the front of the stage and Chase held up his hands like a crossing-guard to hold back the squirming hoard. "Move back, ladies! This is a six foot drop to the grass and I don't want any of you getting hurt! Squish together for me! We have lots of dancers tonight!" Behind him, the audience cheered through muffled coats, bundles of blankets, and crystalized breath. Cameras flashed. Arms waved. Hank and Lorrie pushed the glistening trophy cart across the back of the stage with game-show flair. Miss Kayla's dance studio clustered together on stage-left, but Janie wasn't with them.

When the girls were finally seated, Pauline stepped into the spotlight and Chase ducked off stage. This was usually the point where he grabbed a snack and chilled in the break room, but not tonight. Will and Kayla sat with their spouses among the group of studio teachers. Janie was there, sitting on the floor beside an empty chair. She smiled at Chase and tapped the seat. He sat down.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey," he said.

Chase wrestled with what to tell Janie; something to prepare her for the loss. "Even if you don't get first place, your dance was the best I've ever seen."

Her lips didn't move, her vocal cords didn't produce a sound, but when Janie rested her head against Chase's leg, she said millions.

* * *

Chase's thoughts stayed with Janie through the entirety of that pivotal award ceremony. He became fully aware of the minutia of their interactions: the way her hair rubbed against his pant leg, the way she looked at him for no reason, the way she squeezed his ankle when Miss Kayla's studio received a high score, the way she modestly accepted every triple platinum trophy, walking from backstage to the award table, then slinked back to his side. (The way his ticks and mind games settled when she was beside him.)

It would be another year and a half before Chase would strive to recall the peripheral interactions of the night. The way Kayla wiped tears from her eyes with a tissue hidden in her palm. The way her husband's whispers made it worse. The way she pulled it together when Sarah leaned over to congratulate her for every win. The way she held her breath every time one of Janie's dances was announced. The way she exhaled in relief when the girl received "Top In Category." The way Mr. Carmel brought up God's purpose for the theater. The way Kayla's husband changed the subject to equipment for his new store.

Chase would remember the way Janie seemed at peace in a room filled with a dozen white elephants.

When Chase looked back on these moments, Janie's mother was the only person who seemed free (or oblivious?) of the buried stress; the only person who observed the competition without a hidden motive. When Chase assembled the pieces later, Sarah Carmel would be innocent.

Four of Janie's numbers had already been announced and she received the "Top In Category" award for every dance. When Pauline began the awards for teen lyrical solos, Chase felt like he swallowed a live humming bird. Janie asked, "Are you okay?"

He said he was.

Pauline's voice echoed through the metallic crannies of the backstage. "We had seven _stunning_ dancers in the competitive division of teen lyrical, and the awards are as follows: Tracy Cavenaugh received a triple platinum trophy for her performance of 'The Climb.' Haylee Eldrige received a bronze trophy for her performance of 'Dust in the Wind.' Chrissy Vandersluise received a bronze trophy for her performance of 'Hallelujah.' Jacylin Cook received a double platinum trophy for her performance of 'Hide and Seek.' Mara Gould received a platinum trophy for her performance of 'Angel.' Janie Carmel received a triple platinum trophy for her performance of 'Ave Maria'. And Kennedy Bean received a gold trophy for her performance of Amazing Grace."

Chase's brain became a jumble of numbers _(5, 6, 7, 8. 5, 6, 7, 8)._ He blinked _(5, 6, 7, 8)._ He blinked again. He looked to Kayla _(5, 6, 7, 8)_ She looked ready to barf. _She just might_ , Chase thought. And he would have to clean it up _(5, 6, 7, 8)!_

Pauline continued, "And the Top In Category award for teen competitive lyrical goes to..."

He squeezed Janie's hand.

"Janie Carmel for her performance of 'Ave Maria!'"

How the heck...?

On stage, the girls in Miss Kayla's Dance Studio leapt up and twirled. Backstage, Kayla and Sarah jumped from their seats and hugged.

Kayla's husband remained seated and said, "Proud of you, babe."

Janie seemed pleased, but not surprised. She put her face close to Chase's ear and whispered, "It's gonna get crazy. I'll see you tonight?"

He nodded, still dumbfounded, and Janie left to get her award.

At first, Chase assumed that April May finally decided to help him out. _How sweet!_ he thought. But then he saw it. He saw it in Mr. Carmel's slouch. The way the world thrived and collapsed around the man, yet he remained comfortable in his metal chair, one arm around his chattering wife, the other tapping a row of invisible keys. Chase saw it in his blank stare; in the quiet smirk that genetics had passed to Janie. _It was him_. _He_ approached Pauline with a business decision. Pauline accepted and gave instructions to April May. And now Janie was on the stage, unknowingly stealing away her fifth Top In Category award. Chase didn't watch her. He kept his eyes on her dad. And the more he stared, the more he understood the distance and aloofness of a man with a thousand secrets; a man who determined his own path in life and would use any means necessary to clear it.

Miss Kayla stepped to William. She put her arms in the air and taunted him with a belly dance.

"Congrats, Miss Kayla. You proved me wrong," William said.

"Annnnnd?"

"And we'll finalize our bet when I have coffee with your husband."

Janie returned with her final trophy and a temperate look of satisfaction. Miss Kayla threw her arms around the dancer apparently forgetting that—only moments ago—she warned Chase to stay away from her forever.

* * *

"You like country?" Janie asked, her face lit by the technicolor glow of iPad screen.

"I'm from Memphis!"

"Gross."

"I've got some classical and a little opera if you—"

"Anything with a beat?"

It took a moment of finger poking before Janie found a song that suited her mood, and when she pushed play, the electronic sound of a thousand Sparkle Motion associations hit Chase like a sickness as _The Black Eyed Peas_ punctured the night. He almost asked her to change the song, but then she tilted her head and those moonlit eyes wiped away the bad associations to make room for a new memory; a memory of a cool spring night; of a little boy, a little girl, and a hill on top of the world.

(5, 6, 7, 8!)

Janie bit her lower lip. She wrinkled her nose. She turned away. She bolted. Chase followed her at top speed as she ran the perimeter fence with one hand swinging the music and the other flickering the black bars. He felt the cold air whipping down his jacket and lifting bumps from his arms. At this height, they were chasing stars.

Chase grabbed the cramp in his side but kept moving. The theater was on his right, lit with a single mercury-vapor that glimmered blue between the quivering bars of the fence. To his left were the blinking eyes of a thousand sleeping homes with moms and dads and kids that had never experienced this dashing excitement. And in front was Janie, her legs racing in taupe suede boots and tight cream leggings under a navy, knee-length dress. Her cardigan flared out behind her, and when she glanced back to make sure he wasn't falling behind, Chase fell in love with her knit beanie—taupe to match the boots—with brown hair cascading straight from the back.

Janie's hand suddenly clamped around one of the bars, jerking her body to a halt. Chase tried to stop but he was too close. They collided and his body fell into hers. She laughed, then wiggled a set of stolen keys from her pocket and unlocked a gate that blended seamlessly with the fence. She stepped through the opening and stopped, blocking Chase's path, then mouthed the lyrics to their song.

They ran across the field. They ran through the seats littered with concession debris. Janie zigzagged between rows, then leapt over a seat with nimble dancer legs and Chase kept up.

Up the stage. Up the stairs. Around the Sparkle Motion set and through the black backstage. Janie reached a metal ladder and asked "Are you brave?" then scampered up those rungs with the awkward grace of a squirrel. Chase followed as quickly as possible, ascending into the darkness with his heart pumping double-time.

The song faded and Chase found himself panting for air on the loading gallery beside the fly system pulleys. Janie was already crawling across the catwalk that extended horizontally across the stage. Chase followed. Cautiously.

Janie's face didn't show exhaustion, but her chest heaved in a slow, even rhythm. Their legs dangled forty feet above the performance area. The floor was still speckled with remnants from the awards show; soda tops, discarded ribbons, a broken trophy, bits of torn mesh... about a billion bobby pins. Behind them hung dozens of adjustable lights with colored gels, as well as the rigging for curtains, backdrops and props. In front was the proscenium arch, open curtain, and partial view of the sleeping suburb.

"We're supposed to wear a harness up here," Janie said. "But we'll be careful." She gave him back his music player. "Better take it. I'd feel bad if I dropped it."

The first few minutes on the catwalk consisted of bumbling, one-word answers to Janie's simple questions about the stage, dance competitions and school. But when his brain relaxed, Chase let go.

"The Salt Lake City show was the worst! You're not going to believe me, but I swear this happened. There was a trio of girls, right? And they had this gimmick where they wore blindfolds while they danced. One of the girls was super nervous at the beginning. I _knew_ something wasn't right. But then they all start dancing and the nervous girl does her first spin... and she throws up all over the stage! Like, projectile. Like, _everywhere_. But what does a good dancer do when she barfs?"

"She keeps dancing!"

"Right. And she did! She kept dancing and so did her friends. But of course her friends can't see the mess on the stage, and the music's so loud that they didn't hear her gag, so there's this awful puddle of chunky, pink puke all over the floor and the girls just keep going. Now this is a modern dance so they all fall to the ground and start crawling around! April May doesn't know what to do. She's not supposed to turn off the music until the girls go off stage or it could affect their score, you know?"

"But that's awful!"

"And the other girls start to realize that their hands and knees are wet so they lift their blindfolds to see what the heck is going on. One of them makes it off stage before she loses her lunch too, but the other girl just screams and screams and slaps herself like she just bumped into a hornet's nest. April May finally cuts the music, so I drop the curtain and grab the mop."

"That. Is. Disgusting."

"You think it's disgusting to _hear about_? You should have been there!"

"You're cute when you're working, but cleaning up puke probably doesn't excite the ladies."

Chase's mind was already somewhere else. "Do you do drugs?"

"Not yet."

"Me either. I don't think I ever will. A friend offered me pot once but I turned him down. It's not for me. I talk to much, don't I?"

Janie walked her fingers across the metal guard until they reached his hand. She peeled his fingers from the pole and took them in hers. "You're cold."

"I'm glad I met you this way. If you met me in class, you wouldn't be holding my hand right now."

Janie rubbed his fingers between her palms. "You shouldn't have fixed the scores for me."

The statement caught Chase off guard. What was he supposed to tell her? The truth?

"I don't like Tracy," she said, "but I also don't like cheating. It was my fault that I fell. I was trained to ignore distractions. If there's a hurricane, barfing girl, or winking boy, my form should be flawless."

"Miss Kayla taught you that?"

"I know you did it for me though. So thanks."

Chase couldn't accept the gratitude, so he steered the conversation away from the fixed awards. "Tracy's boyfriend... did he really kiss your scar on a dare?"

"He's a pervert. Like, seriously a pervert."

"Did you like him?"

"They've been dating ever since he kissed me. They're like the middle-school power couple. Apparently they snuck to the stage to hook-up once."

"Ew."

"Lots of teenagers do. Dad hates it. He calls the cops every time." Janie smirked. "How great would that be? Tracy's own Dad catching her tonguin' some boy on stage. Sometimes we have a security guard, but he's lazy. Dad doesn't pay for 'lazy.'"

"Your dad's an interesting guy."

"Yeah."

"My dad left my mom because she was controlling. She says he got sick of being wrong. They were never really married anyway."

"Did you hear my dad's crazy?"

"Crazy? Seems pretty regular to me."

"He heard a voice. It told him to build this stage."

"A voice in his head?"

"No. See the stables down there by my house? In there."

"I know he likes to cut corners."

"What do you mean?"

Chase remained seated, but twisted his neck to look at the rigging behind them. "See the draperies? Those long, horizontal bars holding the curtains up are called battens. The batten is connected to lift lines, which go up through the pulleys and back down to the counterweights on stage-right. But there are usually five lift lines connected to the battens that hold large draperies. These only have two. It looks like they used a thicker wire to compensate, but I'm sure it cut the cost of the fly system by a ton."

Janie released Chase's hand and repositioned herself on the catwalk. He grasped the railing tighter as the metal creaked and swayed. She squirmed into position, faced away from Chase, and then laid on her back. "Lay down too?" she said and took off her beanie. Chase swung his legs away from Janie, scooted his butt a foot down the catwalk, then rested his head on the grated metal, ear-to-ear with his new girlfriend.

He thought of Kayla's warning. He knew she was wrong about Janie, but one of her comments still confused him. "Why do you dance?" he asked.

"Because I like it."

"Is that the real reason?"

"I've been dancing since I was a little girl. It's in my genes. I'll probably do it for the rest of my life."

The answer satisfied Chase, though it seemed a bit rehearsed. She _was_ a dancer after all.

The next hour of conversation was interspersed with contented silence. An argument about the correct lyrics to "Baby Got Back" spurred another trip to the mp3 player. Sometimes Janie would let her head fall sideways to listen to Chase's sweeping monologues, and her breath would warm his neck. He wanted to kiss her. Her cheek was so close! Sure, the scar looked funny—a little mangled even—but it was just skin. He wondered if there was a story behind the scar, or if it was just a birth mark. It wasn't pressing enough to bring up tonight.

"Tomorrow..." Chase said, "Are we still going to be...?"

"Boyfriend and girlfriend?"

"Yeah." Chase suddenly regretted the question. Things were going so good! Did he jinx it? He couldn't back out now. "Are we—"

"Yeah," she said before he could finish. "If you still like me."

A ping of sickness grabbed his chest and he suddenly understood the phrase "it made my heart skip a beat."

"Listen," he said, "I've been all over the country. I've met at least a million girls, all shapes and sizes and colors. And if I could pick any of them to be my girlfriend, it would be you. Every time."

Chase once heard that if you put your hand on an electric burner, ten seconds feels like an hour; and if you sit by a pretty girl, an hour feels like ten seconds. Having never touched an electric burner, Chase wasn't sure about the first part. But now— _only twenty-seconds since he met Janie at the theater_ —his watch read two in the morning. The saying was right on.

Janie yawned. Chase caught the germ and yawned too.

"I have church in the morning," she said.

"I have to strike the set tomorrow," he said.

They sat up, closer now than before, and Chase put his arm around her.

"Do you want to know why I dance?" she asked.

"I thought—"

"That wasn't completely true. If you want to know the real reason, you need to promise me that it stays right here on this catwalk."

"Of course."

"Nobody knows this. Not Miss Kayla, not my parents, not my very best friends. Nobody."

"I swear."

"And when I say that it stays on the catwalk, that means that unless we're sitting right here, alone... you never bring it up to me again."

"I'll never tell anybody why you dance. I'll never talk to you about it unless we're alone on this catwalk." He crossed his heart. "I promise."

Her eyes flicked back and forth between his. When she was absolutely certain he was telling the truth, she reached deep into her cardigan pocket. When her hand emerged, a plastic device was pinched between her thumb and forefinger. Chase couldn't tell what it was. The form should have been a sphere, but cracks across the top and bottom flattened it into an egg as if someone had stepped on it.

"It's a speaker," she said.

"It's tiny."

"I found it last fall. I was letting people into the stables to see the place where my dad heard the voice. It was my job to make sure the room didn't get too crowded, and I had to make the people take off their shoes and socks at the door. A little Spanish girl started crying because she accidentally broke something and her mom started yelling at her for touching what she wasn't supposed to. Most of my dad's stuff is crap, so I wasn't too worried, but then she handed me this." Janie rolled the speaker in her fingers.

"I don't understand."

"I knew it was a speaker. It still has a little bit of black mesh over the hole where the sound comes out. I showed it to Dad but I didn't tell him where I found it. He said he'd never seen anything like it before."

"I still don't..."

"So I looked up different kinds of speakers online, and I found this one. It's brand new. They have a whole website for it. Says the audio is crisp and clear. Says movie dialogue sounds just like the actors are in the room with you. It also says they're wireless for hundreds of feet."

"Do you think—"

"I don't know who did it, but they turned my dad into a joke."

"Shouldn't you tell him?"

"I'm part of the reason he built this theater. Whatever the voice told him—whatever it made him feel—Dad made it clear that this was a family effort. The voice told him to do it, but he did it for everyone. Mom supports him, but she also thinks he's a little crazy. Everybody else makes fun of him behind his back, even if they like the theater. The least I can do is dance." Janie inhaled deeply. "So now I dance."

She looked at Chase. He looked away. Out of nowhere, she kissed his cheek. "This piece of plastic is why my dad has faith. But not me."

"You don't have faith?" he asked.

"I do have faith." Janie rested her head on Chase's shoulder and lowered her voice to a near-whisper. "But I don't need a piece of plastic to believe."

They sat like that for a while. Chase rubbed his hand on her shoulder, through her hair, and pulled the renegade strands behind her ear.

"It's late," he said.

"I know," she said.

"Maybe we should go to bed?"

"Maybe."

"You have church tomorrow, and I have—"

"Strike," she said. "I know."

The wind picked up, wrapped around the curved bandshell and rocked the catwalk and lights.

"I could stay a little longer..." Chase said. "If you don't think you'll be too sleepy."

"A few more minutes would be good," she said.

When eight AM arrived and Sarah's worried voice carried up the hill and rang like a bell in the theater, the couple kissed one last time, released hands, and said goodbye.

**SIX \- Batten Clamps**

MAY

"Sarah? It's Kayla."

"I know your voice, honey. How're you feeling?"

"I'm doing better."

"Are those vitamins working?"

"Hmm?"

"The vitamins. Are they—"

"I lied. I'm not doing better."

"Oh, Kay... The stomach again? Anxiety? Do you need me to come over?"

"No. Well, yes. I think I'd like you to come over."

"What can I bring? Tea again? The boys are at the theater and Janie just left for a sleepover. We can have a girls night."

"I'm sorry we didn't have a party this year."

"I was wondering about that, but we didn't want to intrude if you had plans without us."

"No. We didn't have plans. Hyde barely remembered."

"Did you get my card?"

"You've been good to us, Sarah."

"Honey? You sound—"

"I know. I think..."

"Kay? Are you there?"

"I think we need to talk."

"Of course. I'll be right over. Let me grab the tea—"

"No. No tea tonight. Just come over. And we'll talk."

"I'm leaving now."

* * *

A year ago— _just a year ago—_ Kay and Hyde invited the Carmels to her birthday party. They initially planned to invite their old city friends, but then Kayla decided to pare it down to new acquaintances. They had a new life now, and while she would never lose touch with her old bible study, those friends were gone now.

Hyde was on the riding lawnmower that birthday morning; shirt off, buff, white as a Michigan Christmas. Yard work was one of the few chores he complained about. He hated grass stains. He hated work clothes. He hated machinery. But last week's letter from the association scared the crap out of him. He and Kayla weren't familiar with suburb covenants, and with all the unpacking and decorating they completely forgot about the length requirements for grass. The letter was signed by Jaxon Silverman, the same man who showed them the lot and explained the benefits and joys of suburban living. He was also the man who left the massive gift basket on their porch this morning, pulled tight in yellow cellophane with a card that read, "Welcome to the Neighborhood and Happy Birthday to Mrs. Reid!"

When Hyde was finished with the yard, Kayla watched him drive the mower across the street, through the Carmel's front yard, and to the back of Will's stables. When Hyde walked through his own front door (taking intentional care to wipe his feet on the new welcome mat) Kayla kissed the sweat off his naked shoulder and said, "You smell like grass."

"I know," he growled.

"Oo, Mr. Grumpy-pants today?"

"I'm gonna shower. Wanna join me, birthday girl?"

"Dirty!" She slapped the same shoulder she kissed. "We have company tonight!"

"Mmm, maybe when they leave?"

"I'll tell you what." Kayla slipped her hands into the back of Hyde's jeans and thumbed the belt loops. "You set up another man-date with Sarah's husband—"

"Aw, Kay! I like the man, but that's—"

"—and we'll do that thing we normally save for _your_ birthday."

His eyes popped open. "Really?"

"Weally," she said.

"Pwomise?"

"I pwomise."

Hyde bared his teeth beneath an exaggerated smile and rubbed his nose against hers. "I'll see what I can do."

She pulled her hands out of his pants and spanked his butt as he walked away. "Have a nice shower."

"I'm going out for a bit when I'm clean," he called from the bedroom.

"I thought you took the day off!" she called back.

"For supplies. For my wife's birthday!"

"Oh! Well, that's acceptable! Can I give you a list?"

He groaned. "Yes, dear!"

Kayla danced to the kitchen, then grabbed the edge of her new granite bar like a ballet barre, bent forward, and lifted her leg.

The kitchen was absolutely, unbelievably, spectacularly gorgeous. It sparkled. It had a dishwasher! And a working garbage disposal and a fridge that smelled like rain instead of cheddar. She didn't have much to clean before the guests arrived, but there was plenty to unpack. Heck, she'd be unpacking until next year at this rate! The engraving machine would have to go. It looked like some high-tech arcade game standing against the living room wall, right beside the kitchen bar; not the ideal place for such a messy machine. Why did her parents buy her such a massive present while they were in the middle of a move?

"Oh shit!" she yelled, then grabbed her mouth at the expletive.

"Everything okay?" Hyde asked from the bathroom.

"I'm fine!" she yelled back, then said to herself, "Almost forgot..." On the bar beside the machine sat her first successful stone with one of her favorite phrases. " _Go Confidently in the Direction of Your Dreams. Live the Life You've Imagined."_

What a silly thing they did that night. It was Hyde's idea to show off his equipment, to prove that he knew his business and to show Will that his mean comments were unfounded. It was her idea to make the hoax _inspirational_.

Nothing came of it though. Hyde said that the speakers probably didn't even work at that distance. Since the intended goal was to prove his technical know-how, he couldn't exactly tell William that he tried to show off and failed; that would be embarrassing! And Hyde had a delicate ego. Kayla had asked if it was a good idea to tell Will the truth that night, but Hyde said they should wait until they knew if the speakers actually worked.

Kayla considered the consequences of leaving the stone out for the party. If Will _did_ hear her voice, the phrase would probably encourage him talk about it and they could laugh and tell him about the joke. If he _didn't_ hear her voice, he would just think it was a pretty phrase. She decided to set it on the coffee table, just to see what happened. (Two weeks later, Kayla would bury the stone by the hose reel at the side of the house. Five months later, she would still wake up in the middle of the night, absolutely certain that William Carmel was outside digging.)

Hyde left for the store. By the time he returned, the engraving machine was squeezed in the closet, three boxes of books and trinkets were unpacked to the living room shelves, and Kayla finally located the stack of board games that Hyde stashed under the guest-room bed.

She offered to help unload the car, but he refused. "The birthday girl gets to relax. Put your feet up. Work on your puzzle."

So Kayla did just that. It was _her_ day, after all, and she would work on her thousand-piece Van Gogh as long as she wanted!

Crepe-paper streamers were first out of the bag. Hyde balanced on one of the folding chairs from the puzzle table and taped long, swooping strands of yellow and orange across the house. The stereo system (the first thing that Hyde unpacked and assembled) played Kayla's music; a perfect blend of pop and show tunes. _Les Mis, Phantom, Legally Blonde, Wicked_ ; she knew them by heart and belted every lyric. She was a better dancer than she was a singer, but Hyde rarely complained.

The Carmels came. The Carmels left. Kayla threw her arms around her husband and said, "I can't believe you planned another date! And what about Janie? She was cute! And what a good little dancer!"

"I want to know how they can afford house payments if he plays music at a piano bar. Does she even have a job?"

"Good investments?"

"Must be."

Looking back on the timeline of events, Kayla would come to the conclusion that her symptoms began in bed that evening. William's stage was a disease after all; the kind where the infected don't even realize they're sick until it's too late. She wore her black underwear; the lacy, revealing kind that she would never wear during the day because they gave her wedgies. She even trimmed her bikini line.

When Kayla crawled in bed that night, she intended to make love to her husband.

Nobody could say she didn't try.

"How does he hate sports so much?" Hyde asked, shedding his khakis to a wrinkled puddle at his feet. "He looks so rugged."

"Gay!" Kayla shouted, then hid the lower half of her face beneath the covers.

"Baby, don't say that."

"Maybe he is! Either way, they're our new best friends so we have to love them."

Hyde stepped to Kay's side of the bed and studied the lump of her body under the comforter. "Yeah, I like them too." He gripped the bottom of the blanket and slid it off the bed, leaving Kayla exposed in her underwear.

"Sexy panties? What are those for?"

"I dunno. I guess I was out of cotton."

Hyde slipped his thumbs under the elastic strap of his whitie-tighties.

"Baby! The lights are on!"

Hyde straightened his arms, pushing the underwear to his thighs.

Kayla covered her eyes with her bare arm. "No no! I can't see that!"

"Do you remember the other night?"

Kayla had mixed feelings about "the other night," but rested her arm across her stomach and nodded innocently.

Hyde was a rock. From the little Kayla knew about things of this nature, he was slightly larger than the average bear, but it was often too much for her to handle.

"I have a present for you."

"Present? You already gave me puzzles!"

"I have _another_ present for you."

"Where where _where_?"

"In the nightstand drawer." Hyde sat on the cream sheets and rested his hand on Kay's inner thigh. She twisted her body until she was on her elbows, then opened the drawer, fumbled around inside, and removed a smooth, purple device in the shape of a phallus.

"What in the world is this for?"

"Us."

"Us?"

"The other night was fun. Maybe a little crazy, but I thought that could be a new beginning for us... sexually."

Until that moment, Kayla assumed that "the other night" was a one-time thing. He was right. It was fun. But "a little crazy" didn't exactly describe it. And what they did beforehand... with the speakers and that silly joke... _(Go confidently in the direction of your dreams!)_

Hyde took the device from her, pushed some invisible button, and it sprang to life with a low-pitched hum. _(Live the life you imagined!)_

"And where exactly do we put that?" she asked.

Hyde didn't respond, but set the vibrating toy in the valley of her breasts and trailed it down her stomach—past her belly button and the mesh rim of her panties—then rested it against her no-no.

This kind of satisfaction was new to Kayla. As Hyde released his grip on the vibrator, leaving it pinched between her thighs in that perfect spot, the pleasure crept through her body in all directions like a hundred slow-moving bolts of lightning expanding from the center of her pelvis, through her stomach, spine and thighs, and into her extremities. _And with that pleasure came the sick._ It was dirty. It was wrong. It was wrong to fool their friends. It wasn't the Godly thing to do.

Hyde was in bed now. The lights were still on. He removed the toy from between her legs, set it aside (still humming), and slid her underwear past her knees, down her ankles, to the footboard. He blindly patted the bed for the device, found it, and brought it back to her thighs. He began on the outside of her leg, then rounded her gracilis muscle. It tickled. She writhed. Hyde leaned into her neck and kissed her nape while the vibrator pushed closer—

(Go confidently in the direction of your dreams!)

"Maybe we should tell him," Kayla said.

Hyde pulled back.

"Tell who what?"

"Maybe we should tell Will what we did. Just to be safe."

"Is this the best time to—"

"I don't want him to think he's crazy!"

"That's silly. If he heard your voice, he would have said something. We are not talking about this right now." He kissed her cheek. He kissed her neck. He kissed her bra. He pressed the buzzing mechanism gently against her crease.

(Live the life you imagined!)

Kayla squeezed her thighs together and pushed her pelvis in the air, shunning the toy and husband from her personal space. "Why would he question your passion in the first place? This is his fault!"

"Pumpkin-pie—"

"Why can't I talk about it if I need to? Don't you care that it's bothering me?"

"Of course I do, but—"

"But what?"

"I thought we were having fun."

"I want to know your plan. When are you going to get the speakers from the stables?"

"Kayla! It was a joke. I'm sorry we did it now, believe me."

Those last two words carried just enough sarcasm to ruin the mood. She took the toy from his hand, fumbled for the switch, and turned it off. If Hyde wanted to recapture the memories of Easter night, he was out of luck.

"What about our deal? I set up a man-date with him!"

"If sex is all you can think about right now, fine. I'll do whatever you tell me."

It was downhill from there. Hyde turned off the light. Kayla pulled the comforter back to the bed. Less than a week later, William would tell the world about the voice.

Even now, sitting in her living room listening to the sound of Sarah's approaching footsteps on the concrete steps, Kayla knew that rejecting Hyde that night was the right thing to do.

The doorbell rang. "Kay?" Sarah said. "Open up, hon."

Kayla removed her cell and typed a message to her husband. " _sarahs here. doing it 2nite_ "

The disease began exactly one year ago today, and when the doorbell rang a second time and Sarah's face peered through the glass, Kayla vowed that tonight— _right now_ —all this crap would come to an end.

* * *

It was after seven already. The sun indicated the days were getting longer, but Hyde's crazy work schedule did what work schedules often do, and he wondered what happened to the last ten hours of his life.

Hyde loved the theater. He loved standing center-stage and spinning around in three-hundred-and-sixty degrees of pure technology; technology that came from his recommendations; technology that helped finance his second store. He lifted his arms, cleared his throat, and yelled, "Echo!" and listened to the reverb in the bandshell.

That afternoon, Will called him at work and asked for help with the fly system. The first week in May was reserved for a production of _Madame Butterfly_ and Will promised them three open lift lines for props and custom backgrounds. The stage was equipped with a dozen lines, but only two were available for outside equipment. One of the backdrops had to go, and William needed Hyde's assistance. _Thank God_. Kayla would still be awake, and the thought of walking back into that house tightened his chest.

Hyde thought the craziness was over. It was supposed to be over at the conclusion of last week's Sparkle Motion show. Janie won every Top In Category award and Kayla finally proved to William that she was a phenomenal dance teacher. She had the whole weekend to become comfortable with the stage she loathed. Hyde encouraged her throughout the competition because, at the time, he thought he saw a light at the end of the tunnel; he thought that, if Janie won, his wife would come back to him. He tried to convince her that the stress would dissolve the moment the show was over; that she would be free of the curse and laugh at her ridiculous behavior. But when the night after the awards finally arrived, Kayla didn't laugh. She cried. _Again._

"Janie won!" Hyde yelled in the bedroom. "You won the bet! Will likes you as a teacher! You can relax!" Kayla sobbed until her nose blew yellow bubbles and her lungs inhaled three breathes for every one it released. Hyde grabbed her by the shoulders. He shook her. He clenched his fingers into her skin-wrapped shoulder blades and shook her body as hard as he could. "Wake the fuck up!" he screamed in her face, but her body remained limp like a doll and her mouth hung open. If her eyes hadn't remained focused on his, he would have thought she was dead.

For the first time since it all began, tears squeezed through Hyde's eyelids. He released his gorilla grip and Kayla crumbled to the bare mattress. He sat down on the edge, away from his wife, and cried.

A minute of silence, then he felt movement on the mattress and heard the creak of the springs. Kayla was crawling toward him. A hairless arm snuck around his neck and a porcelain face rested against his shoulder.

"I need to tell him." The way she spoke reminded Hyde of the bald kids at the children's cancer center. Their voices were soft, cool, and hauntingly present with the sacred insight of impending death. His wife seemed to share their secret. "I need to tell him," she said again. "Then it's over."

"You don't need to tell him. You can fight these feelings."

"I can't. I'll just tell Sarah."

"You're not telling Sarah."

"Next week is my birthday. This will be my present."

"Kay—"

" _You_ got a present. _You_ got your second store. I want _my_ present. No streamers. No balloons. No hat for the dog. Just a little chat with Sarah. Then this all goes away."

"It'll ruin him, Kay. The Carmels are friends. We don't hurt friends like that."

"He still thinks it was God."

"Three-million dollars, Kay. That's how much he invested in our joke. Not to mention his time, his passion, his family... If he finds out it wasn't God, you might feel better, but that family will be destroyed."

Kayla's fingers curled into balls against Hyde's chest, then her body slunk away. When he turned around and wiped the drops from his cheeks, his wife was a motionless fetus, knees at her breasts, facing the opposite wall.

"You won't tell her?" he asked. " _Kayla?_ You won't tell her?"

"No."

"You won't tell either of them?"

"No."

"It's the right thing to do."

"I know."

Face time with Kayla had been scarce since that evening. Late hours at work provided a convenient excuse to avoid her while he figured out how to fix this. A little male bonding at the theater would provide the safe haven he needed, at least for tonight.

Hyde's unfamiliarity with the fly system didn't make him much of an asset to Will, but he promised to do his best. He stood—arms crossed—in front of a white backdrop that ran the entire length of the stage. The top of the curtain was attached to a metal pipe which currently hung at eye level from two wires that ascended past the catwalk to a set of fat pulleys. "Looks like the bar is starting to sag a bit in the middle," he said and ran his hand along the pole to make sure he wasn't seeing things. "The curtains are heavier than they look."

William was thirty feet away in the right-wing, hunched over the counterweight system that supported the curtain. "That bar is called a batten," he called, "and it's made of steel. That curtain is a fire-retardant, velour drape."

"Fancy."

Will ran his left hand across the first twenty feet of the pole and met Hyde in the center of the stage. "If it's warping, there's nothing I can do about it tonight. We're taking it off anyway. Look at this..." He raised his pointer finger to show Hyde a dollop of brown cream smeared on the tip. "It's chocolate," he said. "Somebody left a candy bar on the open counterweight during the Sparkle Motion show. This drape was behind their set, and when they flew it out—"

"—it squished the chocolate between the weights?"

"Looks that way." Will wiped the candy on his pant leg, then gripped the batten like a barbell above his head, checked his footing around the white velour pooled at their feet, and gently pulled the massive fabric-batten-wire contraption toward the ground.

Hyde watched the counterweights on stage-right. As Will pulled the drape toward the stage, the weights ascended toward the ceiling.

The two vertical lift lines were secured to the horizontal batten with clamps. Both clamps were tightened with a single bolt.

Will nodded to the first wire. "Hold the batten. These bolts are tight. And watch your step around my drape!" The men walked to the first clamp and Hyde made sure not to step on the velour.

Will fingered the first bolt. "You heard the phase-fifteen lots sold?" he asked.

"Every one. And I thought we were in a shitty economy. When do they start building?"

Will pulled a wrench from his pocket and worked the teeth around the bolt. "How long did it take you and Kayla to decide on a floor plan?"

Hyde used his weight to steady the bar. "A week. We started building a month later."

"And those houses go up fast. Silverman and Binder have it down to a science." He wiggled the clamp. "That'll do. Follow me."

They meandered across the stage to the second lift line and clamp. Will stood behind the batten, wiggled the wrench around the bolt, then looked at Hyde. "There's something I haven't told you."

"What is it?"

"Sarah knows, Jaxon knows, but nobody else finds out, understand?"

"You know me, Will."

"Sixty days after people move into their phase-fifteen lots, my house is required to meet the Brandywine standards."

"Wait..." Hyde considered what Will was saying. "What?"

"When I sold my property twenty-seven years ago, Jaxon had me sign a contract agreeing to conform to Brandywine rules. When the expansion reaches my house, I'm legally obligated to change my siding, my roof, my windows, my mailbox... and I need to install a white plastic fence. Plus, I'll be bound by the same covenants as everyone else." He released the wrench and gave it to Hyde. "This'll work fine."

"Forget the drape, Will! That sucks! What are you gonna do?"

Will left Hyde and followed the length of the curtain back to the stage-right counterweights. "There's nothing I can do."

Hyde jogged after him. "You can fight it. You can write letters, make a few phone calls. There must be something you can do. It'll cost thousands to make those changes! Jaxon can't possibly still expect you to conform now."

"He's been hanging it over my head for months. If I don't do it, they'll sue me for breach of contract."

"You can't be okay with this! I know you inside and out, Will. It'll kill you."

"Naw." He grinned. "That's why I have this." He lifted his arms and raised his head to the bandshell. "I'm a step ahead, my friend. Jaxon can force me to conform my house, but I'll always have my theater."

If Hyde hadn't spent the last year growing close to his neighbor, he might have missed the nearly invisible smirk that connected William to his stage. _Creativity. God. Narcissism._ Each of these concepts were objectified in the theater, and the theater came from Will. Hyde didn't have time to turn the philosophical and psychological implications in his mind, but it seemed to him that—from Will's point of view—the theater was God. But from Hyde's more privileged view, the theater was _William_.

The men a full minute of silence before Will snapped from his trance. "I'll head to the bridge to remove the weights. When I call you, unbolt the first clamp. Wait until I call again, then remove the second one. I already loosened them for you; I know you have girly hands."

"You're a writer and a piano player, buddy. A warm marshmallow is stronger than your fingers."

Hyde's phone beeped in his pocket.

"I'm heading up," Will said. "I'll hit the rope lock for safety, then I'll tell you when I'm ready."

Hyde didn't respond. He was distracted by Kayla's text.

" _sarahs here. doing it 2nite_ "

* * *

"I gotta go. Kayla, she—" Hyde stammered. "I'll be right back."

"Is everything okay?" Will turned around. Hyde was already jogging away. "Do I need to come?"

"No! It's fine. She's just... you know Kay..." Hyde hopped off the stage.

"We're losing daylight. I'd rather not turn on the lights just for this."

"Three minutes! I'll hurry!" Hyde waved, turned, and ran.

_It takes three minutes just to get down the hill,_ Will thought. And he couldn't remove the velour and batten by himself.

"Damnit!" He jerked away from the hanging curtain. A dark glob of chocolate was smudged about knee high on his insanely-expensive-white-velour-drape. He looked at his pants and remembered that he wiped his finger on them earlier. It was his fault.

Cleaning supplies were in the hatch room across from the chorus room. A little bleach would get it off, but he had to wipe away the extra glop first. Will needed a better angle to reach the stain, so he tenderly stepped on the heap of insanely-expensive-white-velour-drape, wrapped one arm around the back of the fabric so he had something to press against, then carefully wiped up the excess chocolate with his finger. _"Son of a bitch,"_ he muttered, and began to shuffle away, forgetting that his feet were planted on the insanely-expensive-white-velour-drape. "Son of a bitch!" he said again, louder. He jumped from the fabric to the hardwood, then knelt to examine his second mistake: two loafer footprints.

The sun was already sinking behind the horizon; what was once a blinding, undefinable orb was now a perfect orange circle. William looked out over the chairs, past the grass and rear fence, and he could still see Hyde running in the distance. He watched his friend's body disappear down the slope, then he marched to the right-wing, ducked behind the podium, and fished his arms around for paper towel. There were two rolls, both empty except for the last sheets glued to the cardboard tubes. He tore them off and took five determined steps to the candy-bar culprit that ruined his velour.

Because the curtain was still lowered on stage, the balancing counterweights hung near the ceiling. Will looked up. There would be chocolate on the bottom of those bricks too. He would wait until Hyde came back, then they would lower the weights and clean them together.

He looked down at the stack of chocolate-covered steel bricks that served as a resting place for the weights above his head. The squished candy covered the weight like icing on a cake, and the paper-towel scraps were hardly enough to wipe it up effectively. Will worked the first towel in circles, but it only smeared the chocolate more. He tossed it to the floor and began wiping with the second shred of towel. There were brown specks mixed with the chocolate. "Pulverized peanuts," he said, and laughed at the alliteration.

The second rag did a decent job of cleaning the remaining residue. He tossed it with the first, then studied the steel weight. Bits of chocolate were still pressed into the grains of the corse steel. He scraped his thumbnail on the dried chocolate. It seemed to be—

A pop and metallic clang sent Will's head spinning just in time to see the loose batten clamp snap through the air with the lift line, dropping half the curtain to the floor. Before the image of the limp batten and soaring velour registered in his brain, a thunderous rattle shook the stage and pain struck his left hand like a dozen vipers with sharp and sinking teeth. The sound of colliding steel arrived a split second later (as if pain traveled faster than sound), and Will instinctively yanked his arm away but it was too late and his shoulder nearly popped from its socket.

The sterile smell of metal mixed with the stench of stale chocolate and unbalanced his equilibrium. Blood rushed to his head, pulling a blurry vail over his vision. _He couldn't faint_. If he fell backward, the weight of his body would either break his arm or rip off his clamped fingers. He bit his tongue—hard enough to make it bleed—then shook his head and blinked rapidly until his vision returned.

He saw the damage and wished he let himself black out. His left hand was buried between the stack of steel bricks. His thumb was free but unmovable. Most of his forefinger escaped the fallen bricks, but the other three fingers were hidden inside the calamity.

In the meandering daylight, his blood appeared black like a spilt inkwell. It flowed down the weights, splattered on his jeans, and pooled on the wooden floor.

He yelled. _He screamed._ "Hyde!" Then he yelled again, letting the "y" sound reverberate into a horrific yodel. _"Hyde!"_

Every breath shuddered in Will's lungs as he inhaled and exhaled tiny bursts of air in perfect sync with his racing heart. "Help me!" he yelled and prayed that his friend was in range. He closed his eyes and listened. Pigeons cooed from the organized tangle of overhead rigging, but no one responded to his call.

William was never good at math, but it came easily now as if his adrenaline-drenched brain would accept any distraction from the seething misery. The velour curtain was approximately forty-feet wide by twenty-five feet tall and weighed roughly a pound per square yard. One-hundred-and-ten yards; one-hundred-and-ten pounds. The steel batten was another fifteen to twenty pounds, plus at least ten pounds of chain and wire that held the contraption to the pulleys on the ceiling. That meant that it would take about one-hundred-and-fifty pounds of counterweight to balance the whole system. Will counted four bricks resting on his hand. _Forty pounds a piece,_ he thought. The rope's lock lever stood erect and laughed in his face.

Slowly, deeply, he sucked in air, held the oxygen in his lungs for as long as possible, then exhaled through sweat-drenched cheeks and a tight "o" in his lips. He did it again. Then again to muster some energy. He inhaled one more time, then released his final scream. "Help me!"

His voice echoed through the bandshell and spurred the sound of fat wings beating rapidly overhead, but the added strain in the word "me" sent another rush of blood to his head. His heartbeat quickened. He closed his eyes and tamed his breath. If he panicked, his heart would go into overdrive and demand more oxygen. His lungs would work overtime and he would hyperventilate and black out. _No more yelling._ Only controlled breathing. _No more yelling._ Hyde would come. _He had to come._

Sitting on another set of counterweights—two feet to his right—was a hammer with an oak handle and thick head. A-hundred-and-sixty pounds of steel was probably too much to lift with one good arm and limited leverage, but he welcomed the mental distraction and grabbed the tool.

Blood pumped to his thumb and swelled it to the size of a purple water balloon. Will turned back to his mangled hand, sat on his knees, then worked the claw of the hammer between the stacks of steel. From his kneeling position, he extended his abdomen until his back was straight, then used the weight of his body to lever the handle down. The bricks were too heavy. He grit his teeth, pushed harder, and managed to release some of the pressure from his trapped fingers, but it wasn't enough to pull them out in one piece. When the sweat on his palms loosened his grip on the hammer, he was forced to gradually release his weight. The pressure returned to his fingers and wrung out fresh blood like a sponge. He screamed. He refused to cry, but a person's body doesn't always obey orders under extreme stress. Blood seeped from the metal, covered the flat tips of the hammer's claw, and puddled around his blackening thumb.

Will dropped his forehead against the rope and dreamed of Sarah. If he ever needed his wife's soothing voice, it was right now.

* * *

Hyde called again but his plea was sent to voicemail.

Kay's phone was off.

His feet scuttled, back pedaled, and tripped in a rapid display of downhill footwork, but he never lost his balance. The hill was still bathed in the evening's glow, but Brandywine Drive was already lost in the shadows of houses and trees. He saw the illuminated living room of his own home from his racing position beside the stables. Though Hyde couldn't make out the details of their faces, he saw two figures sitting on the sofa.

Almost there.

He picked up the pace.

William screamed?

Hyde thought he heard his name descending cleanly from the distant stage, but when the echo faded, it seemed imaginary. He couldn't turn back anyway. He had to stop Kayla.

"Hyyyde!" The terror in that second scream froze him in the middle of the street. _Something was very wrong._

Hyde momentarily lost himself in the glowing yellow square of his living-room window; it became a television and the scene came to life in crystal clear, 1080p high definition. It was a soap opera. Two characters named Kayla and Sarah sat on a couch. Kayla was twenty-seven. Today was her birthday, but her husband was distant after long hours of work, so no party was planned. She spoke with stilted dialogue and large hand gestures about some deceptive affair. Her friend was named Sarah. She was forty something. She didn't move, but listened to the drama with—

" _Help me!"_ Will was hurt.

He had to go back. He knew in his heart that he had to help his friend, but he couldn't pull himself away from the show.

He wanted to yell at the soap characters. He wanted to tell them not to do what they were about to do. He wanted to scream with horror-movie embellishment, _"Don't go into the basement alone!"_ but he was frozen.

Will's final cry left him with no other choice. He flicked off the soap opera, spun a one-eighty, kicked his feet against the pebbled concrete, and ran like hell back to the stage.

* * *

"Kay. Spit it out, hon. What's up?"

The last twelve months were spent with variations of this conversation on an endless loop in Kayla's mind. It started with showers, solitary car rides, mornings in bed without Hyde—those turning questions and answers—what would she say and what _should_ she say and around-and-around and inside-and-out like a pitchfork in a compost pile. Then it infested her yoga time. Her dreams. It wiggled its way into her dance class and found her on Sunday cooking nights with her hubby and she could only stare at boiling water, answering Sarah's hypothetical questions about how and why and how-could-you and why-would-you and Hyde would scream to snap her out of her daze and _again_ she would cry.

But now it was here. It was time. And those rehearsals were for nothing. Sarah was a person. She was a flesh-and-blood friend. Kayla had to explain herself with actual words. They weren't just thoughts anymore; they were physical. _She had to speak them._ "I don't know where to start."

"At the beginning."

Kayla nodded. "Okay." She spoke deliberately, but each word had to be forced out as if an egg was caught in her throat. "This is what happened. Hyde has this computer. It's just a normal, everyday computer. It's the laptop that he uses at work. He brings it home every night. I use it for eBay sometimes... and YouTube. It's just a completely normal—"

"Hyde has a computer. What next?"

"There's this program. It's just a recording program, but it manipulates— Well, I guess the speakers came first. Hyde's store started carrying these tiny little speakers that run on batteries. You don't have to plug them in, you know? They connect to your sound system or computer without wires too. I don't understand how it all works—"

"Kay, you need to get to the point."

After all the angles Kayla considered for this dialogue, a new possibility arrived only now as she sat beside her friend. _Maybe Sarah didn't care!_ What if Hyde was right in those early months... what if Kayla was just crazy? What if she was embarrassing herself by making a big deal out of a silly prank? Maybe Sarah would laugh it off, then return home to tell Will what a silly thing crazy-Kayla said and they would laugh about it together!

_But that would be worse._ That would be worse because it would mean that Kayla really was crazy. If Sarah or William refused to accept the disease as a disease, how could she pass it to them? If she couldn't pass it to them, how could she ever get rid of it?

"These speakers; Hyde can control them through his computer. I guess 'control' isn't the right word; he can play music through them or talk through them or anything he wants. So one night, last year, we were playing around with the program that manipulates your voice. Hyde got into that mode where he needs to prove that he knows his business. He gets in this place in his head where he can only think of one thing, and then his brain just sticks with that thing until it's finished. Does that make sense?"

"Darling," Sarah grabbed the soft muscle above Kayla's knee. " _What happened?_ "

"It wasn't the voice of God that your husband heard that night. It was me."

_She finally said it!_ The secret was off her chest! Out of sight, out of mind! Old news! She could finally step back from the whole ordeal and laugh!

Sarah was a pillar of salt.

Kayla reached for her friend's knee, but she jerked it away.

"I need some tea," Sarah said and stood from the couch.

Kayla stood too and followed her to the kitchen. "It was an accident, Sarah. We didn't even know if it worked until he told everybody at the bar."

Sarah opened the corner cabinet and turned the lazy-susan until the raspberry tea appeared.

"I didn't know what to do. I didn't know who to tell. I won't tell Will what happened, I promise. If you want to tell him, that's up to you. I just thought you should know... Sarah?"

The kettle was stainless-steel to match the appliances; a housewarming gift from her mom. Sarah filled it with tap, then placed it on the electric burner.

"Please don't ignore me."

Sarah leaned her spine against the oven, slouched her shoulders, dropped her head, and let her unbound hair curtain her face.

"Please, please, please don't cry. I didn't know what I could do!" Kayla rested her hands on Sarah's shoulders then stooped down to see her face. She wasn't crying.

"Should we move?" Kayla asked. "We can sell our house and move."

"That's ridiculous." Sarah's words were barely a whisper.

"It's not. I already talked to Hyde about it."

Sarah shook her head.

"Are you going to tell him?" Kayla asked.

"I don't lie to my husband."

"He'll kill me," Kayla whispered.

There wasn't a speck of warmth in Sarah's voice. "He'll kill _somebody._ "

Kayla assumed the same position as Sarah against the stove. They didn't look at each other. They didn't speak. They didn't touch. The kettle's steaming hiss became a whistle, and the whistle melded with the distant scream of a police siren. Within minutes, the tea was split between two mugs and thin strings from raspberry bags draped the rims. Before either woman could take a sip, the living-room walls pulsated with the candy-red lights of a police car.

* * *

The batten was laying across the curtain. The curtain was on the ground. The lift lines were gone which meant the counterweights were back in place.

Hyde's initial read on the situation was that Will must have removed the velour by himself. He was probably pissed that Hyde left so suddenly.

"Will?" he called. He planted his hands on the stage and hoisted himself from the grass. "Will? You here, man?"

A bird fluttered overhead. Hyde arched his head to see if his friend was startling pigeons on the catwalk—maybe playing a trick from above—but the rigging was motionless. When he looked back down, his eyes found Will's body slumped across the weights. He looked dead. Hyde's muscles were too sore to run so he limped and plodded and nearly fell over himself to get to his friend. He dropped to his knees and shook Will's back.

"Will? Buddy? You okay?" He shook him again. "Will? Wake up, man!" Then he saw the hand. He saw the blood. Hyde pulled back Will's head with one hand and thumbed open his lids. His eyes were as white as the velour drapery. He was gone. There wasn't nearly enough blood to be fatal, but Hyde checked his wrist for a pulse anyway.

While Hyde's conscious mind freaked, his subconscious began the important work; he was on the phone with a 911 operator before he realized the cell was in his hand.

Hyde managed to sound more composed than he felt, and the operator's instructions were clear: _don't touch the broken hand. Keep him awake._

Another gentle shake and Will opened his eyes. "Shit," he said. "I think I peed."

Hyde looked at Will's jeans. It was blood, not pee. "Happens to the best of us," he said.

"Glad you could finally make it."

"I'm sorry, Will. I should have been here."

"Bah... You couldn't have known."

"An ambulance is on the way. Do you know what happened?"

"Fuckin' bricks smashed my fingers. I shouldn't have loosened the bolts. One clamp slipped from the batten and the line shot up, then the other followed and the weights dropped."

"You fainted too."

"I'm fine. Really. Didn't hit my head or anything, just my fingers." Will glanced at his hand. His eyelids drifted shut and and his head nodded.

"Hey! William-old-buddy! Look at me! Don't look at your hand!"

His eyes opened.

"You big pussy. Gonna let a little pain get the best of you? Man up!" Hyde sat cross-legged on the ground and searched out Will's spiraling gaze.

"I'm fine." He spoke more clearly. "I feel great. I'm not going anywhere."

"I believe you. You look better already." Hyde rustled the man's hair like he was a little boy. "Hey, you'll love this."

"What's that?"

"I got another letter from Jaxon about the length of my grass."

Will repositioned himself and winced. "He's an ass."

"That's three letters in a row since winter."

"Thought your nose was brown. What happened?" Will spoke as if he had been holding his breath for the last hour.

"Don't talk. Breathe. They'll be here any minute."

Will exhaled. "Did you call my wife?"

_Of course not._ If Kayla was planning to spill the beans about the origin of the theater, the deed was already done. And if that was the case, Sarah Carmel was the last person Hyde wanted to talk to. "She'll meet us at the ambulance when it comes," he said.

"I can't feel it anymore."

"Your hand?"

"My hand."

"That doesn't mean a thing. Just your body's way of dealing with pain."

"It feels normal, like it's still attached. Do you think I'll still be able to play the piano?"

Hyde didn't consider the potential ramifications of Will's crushed fingers. "Of course," he said. "It doesn't look that bad. Looks healthy even. Might be a little swollen... but they'll stitch you up and make you wear a cast and you'll look like a dork for a few months but you'll be even better than you were before... probably with some newfangled robot hand."

"Purchased from Whitaker Electronics, I suppose?"

"Where else can you find affordable bionic hands?"

"The ones at Best Buy are shit. The fingers don't bend right and they're always flipping people off."

"Well that would suit you fine. However, at Whitaker's we have the new BH-ten-thousand, loaded with incredible features. What does it have, you ask? Well let me tell you! For gamers, the BH-ten-thousand promises faster reaction time and increased finger coordination on all video games. They guarantee a twenty-percent improvement against all bosses."

"What's a video game?"

"Not a gamer? I peg you as the artistic type. For piano players—you'll love this—the BH-ten-thousand has a sixth-finger for those hard to reach notes. You slip it on right next to the pinky. Makes you type faster too!"

"I only use one finger to type."

"Ah, a hunter and pecker."

Will smiled. "You said 'pecker.'"

"Wow, you smash your hand and you revert back to a six-year-old. Wait, one finger? I thought you were a writer?"

"One letter at a time, my friend."

"They had typewriters when you were a kid, ya know."

"Not farmers."

"Mmm."

"I think this..." Will paused and nodded to his hand, "...I think this is a sign from God. I need to start writing. I put it off for too long." He squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled through his teeth.

"Pain coming back?"

"In my wrist now."

Hyde leaned his head against a rope. "I'm sorry, Will."

"Sorry for what?"

Hyde thought about Kayla and Sarah and the soap opera in his house. He thought about Will and what might happen when Sarah told him the truth. "I'm sorry I left you tonight," he said.

By the time the ambulance arrived at the Boulevard Street gate, the sun was illuminating some happier part of the world, leaving the Michigan sky a dark, matte blue. Seconds later, a lone police siren strolled through Brandywine. Hyde watched as curious families stepped outside, right down the row, creating a human wake in the path of the patrol car. _This is what you wanted, Kay?_ he thought. _Happy birthday._

* * *

_Pink, cream, sand, beige._ The floral pattern on the chairs matched the pillows on the sofas which matched the wallpaper which matched the shawl of the overweight woman who reminded Sarah of her mother when she licked her forefinger with her cracked tongue and flipped the page of a Time Magazine. Hanging above her head was a photo-print of a birch forest that matched the plastic fern in the corner that matched the trees outside the revolving door. William would hate the generic nature shots hanging in a perfect row with light-pink frames and off-white mattes. _A humming bird. A lighthouse. Rocks. The birch forest._

"Masturbation," William would say. No... she was wrong; it was _abstract art_ that he called masturbation. "Lifeless," would be the word for these prints. "If you want to create art, you need to disturb the soul," he would say. But Sarah liked them. With a darker frame, the lighthouse picture would go well in their bedroom.

Sarah never got to see her husband. The cop outside their house explained that they received a 911 call about an injury at the Carmel Theater. Before she and Kayla could climb the hill to meet the ambulance, William was tossed in the back and carried away. Hyde drove Will's truck to the ER while Kay and Sarah followed. By the time they arrived, William was getting x-rays.

Now they sat side-by-side in floral chairs with oak arm rests. Hyde tried to apologize, but Sarah couldn't listen. She needed to think in peace.

Kayla said something about Janie; something about picking her up from her sleep-over.

"Yeah," Sarah replied. "Sure." She closed her eyes. There was a fountain or a waterfall somewhere in the building. It couldn't be in the emergency waiting room, but the halls that connected the various wings were open and barren. The sound, though distant, took the edge off the ringing phones, chatting orderlies and Kayla's exit.

Hyde whispered her name, but she ignored him. _This was all their fault._

"Sarah," he said again and she opened her eyes. "The doctor's here."

* * *

"The x-rays aren't good." Of course, the doctor prefaced this statement with positive news, assuring Sarah and Hyde that William was otherwise healthy, that he was no longer in pain, and that he lost less than a pint of blood.

Hyde stayed a step behind Sarah as she nodded and shook her head at the doctor's ramblings. She was barely able to made eye-contact, so the doctor often looked to Hyde for visual indications of comprehension.

"What do you mean they're not good?" Hyde asked when Sarah didn't. "What do they show?"

"The weights fractured four metacarpals and three phalanges. Other than a nasty bruise and popped blood vessels, his thumb and forefinger should be fine. Two of his carpals are fractured, and it appears three of them have been dislocated. The skin split in several places, which accounts for the blood loss, but we cleaned him up."

"I don't understand," Hyde said. "All that from a hundred-and-fifty pounds? That's less than I weigh."

"From what I understand these steel weights dropped..."

"About twenty feet."

"The weight of the steel may have only been one-sixty. But 'apparent weight' also takes the height of the drop into consideration. By the time the steel reached his hand, the pressure could have been anywhere between two and three-thousand pounds, though his injuries suggest it wasn't quite that extreme."

"So, what next?"

"Immediate open reduction surgery on the carpals in his lower hand, then splints to the fingertips, a cast, and frequent trips to an orthopedic." The doctor refocused on Sarah. "We'll begin surgery within the next two hours. He's a little out of it from the morphine, but if you'd like to stay with your husband beforehand, I'll walk you back."

Sarah's gaze ran straight into the back corner of the waiting room. She rubbed her thumb against her teeth. "I'll see him when he's out."

"Of course, Mrs. Carmel. We'll let you know how it goes."

The doctor thinned his lips, nodded to Hyde, and the men shared a moment of mutual understanding; Sarah needed help.

"I need a cigarette," Hyde said before she could sit. "Join me?"

"I don't smoke."

"I know."

Outside the revolving doors, the overhead awning was lit by a green neon sign. The evening was warmer than Hyde expected, but Sarah asked for his coat so he took it off and wrapped it around her shoulders. He looked at the theater; two miles away but as bright and prominent as a Vegas billboard. He struck the wheel of his lighter, held the end of the cigarette over the flame, and sucked the filter until smoke filled his lungs.

"You're too close to the door," Sarah said, "New smoking law."

Hyde exhaled a thick bout of smoke and the breeze carried it away. "You should see him."

"I can't right now."

"It's not his fault, Sarah. Don't be angry with him."

"Did he lie to me?"

"What?"

"Is there any way he knew about the voice and lied to me anyway?"

"No. Everything he says is genuine."

"Then I'm not angry with him." Sarah rubbed her shoe against a tiny stuffed bear; a lost trinket from the hospital gift shop. It was already missing an arm, but Sarah's soul mangled the synthetic flesh into the concrete sidewalk. "He told you about the vision? The ghost-theater? That was part of his piano-bar rant, right?"

"We've been asking ourselves the same questions. Obviously we couldn't have had anything to do with that. Maybe God—"

"God didn't decide to give William a vision at the exact moment you played a prank on him."

"Then what happened? He wasn't lying."

"No. He wasn't. But you sparked something, Hyde. You may be good friends with my husband, but you don't know half his story."

"What does his story have to do with the vision?"

"You gave him an excuse to start again. Your joke may have been an accident, but it unleashed the very thing I spent years bottling up." The bear's pink fur detached from the back of his head and mashed into the cement. Sarah looked up from the teddy-massacre with wet eyes. "I thought it was different this time. I thought that maybe—because this was from God—it was okay to let him do it. I thought God was talking to me through this miracle. I thought he was saying, 'You can let go of your fear. It's safe to let him create again.' I thought this project had a divine blessing when the others didn't. But without God, this is just another failed endeavor."

Hyde took another drag. He meant to say something encouraging—

"My only hope lies in the fact that William still thinks his theater is divine. If he continues to have faith in that lie, he'll stay clean. He'll stay a father to Janie and a husband to me. If he still thinks his work is somehow transcendent, he won't fall into old habits."

"I don't understand."

Sarah stepped toward Hyde leaving the tattered toy in the dust. "If William finds out that he's alone in this project... if he finds out he's been talking to himself in an empty shed, he'll find something physical that actually works. He'll start with amphetamine; Ritalin or Adderall because it lets him revel in his creative bubble. He'll block me out. He'll block Janie out. And when the meds don't work quick enough, he'll crush them and snort them so they go to the head faster. He'll work harder and he'll stop sleeping. Then he'll lie. He'll tell me everything's fine, then I'll find coke in his toiletry drawer. He'll tell me it's a one-time thing. He'll tell me he's almost finished, just one more book or movie or song or play and he'll make it big. You didn't know William when I found him. Hell, you weren't even born yet. You haven't heard the stories of what his life was like before me; how close he came to dying from his creative insanities."

Hyde dropped the butt and heeled it.

"And now I'm left with three options. Only three. I can destroy my husband. Or I can live with this lie. If I live with the lie, I watch the same production that you and Kayla did. I watch him preach what he doesn't understand. I watch him make foolish decisions because he thinks God told him to. And if he finds out the truth? Then what? Then I suppose he'll know that I'm a liar too. He'll know we all lied." Sarah put her hands in the pockets of the borrowed coat, then looked at the theater. "Why won't I see my husband before surgery? Because I'll have to comfort him with the first lie I've ever told. And I haven't prepared myself for that."

Hyde was afraid to ask. "What's the third option?"

Sarah looked away from the stage and back to Hyde. "I leave my husband."

"No. It won't come to that. I promise you Sarah, it will never come to that."

"Don't make me promises you can't keep."

* * *

"We did everything we could for them! I picked up Janie. I brought Sarah food. You comforted her... They'll be fine at the hospital. He'll be released tomorrow and his fingers will be healed in no time at all!" Kayla danced around the kitchen island while Hyde picked at leftover Chinese takeout from Sunday night. It was two in the morning and several hours since the last time they ate anything but vending-machine food, but Kayla was too bouncy for dinner. "It's not my responsibility anymore. I'm free! Can't you feel that? Can't you feel that release? Like a weight lifted off our family?"

"That's not funny."

"What's not funny?"

"Like a weight?"

"I didn't mean that, silly. You need to smile!"

"You shouldn't have told her."

"Why? How was it so wrong? Sarah is all about 'truth truth truth.' I never hear the end of it! And now she has the truth. It's what she wanted!"

"So simple."

"I want this to be a new beginning for us. I want to start over. I want us to make new friends!" Kayla took the paper box of orange chicken from Hyde and set it on the granite. "Pretend like this is a year ago. Pretend that Will saw that engraved stone at my party and he asked about it and we told them the truth. Pretend there isn't a theater outside our window. Pretend that we made love that night." Kayla ran her fingertips over the blond hair on his arms. "Tell me you love me."

Hyde's breath was warm with flavored chicken and his shirt smelled like smoke. "I love you," he said.

"Do you mean it?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Yeah _what_?"

"Huh?"

"Say, 'Yeah, sugar-muffin, of course I still love you!'"

"Yeah, sugar-muffin, of course I still love you."

"Maybe when we start anew, you can quit smoking."

"Yeah."

"Yeah _what_?"

"Yeah, sugar-muffin."

"Wait here." Kayla skipped to the bedroom, grabbed the vibrator from the storage bin beneath the bed, checked to make sure the batteries still worked, stripped down to her undies, touched up her makeup in the mirror, and rushed back to the kitchen.

Hyde was eating again.

She posed against the refrigerator. "You're not supposed to use a fork to eat Chinese food."

He careened his neck and she sauntered over. "Tonight?" he asked.

She pulled the takeout box away for the second time, then used her pelvis to pin Hyde to the counter. She took his hand in hers, pressed it to her breast, pulled it down her skin, and pushed it between her thighs. "Can you feel that? I haven't been this turned on in a year." She raised the toy. "How does this thing work, Hydey? Can you show me?"

Hyde unbuttoned his khakis and unzipped his fly.

She worked her hand inside his pants. "No underwear? Dirty!"

"We haven't done laundry in weeks."

A quick yank and his pants were on the floor. Hyde kicked them away, then picked her up, spun her around, and dropped her on the counter. He didn't speak, but worked her panties off until her bare ass felt the cold slab of granite. She gave him the vibrator and he flipped it on.

The pleasure arrived effortlessly and Kayla embraced the new feeling with elbows in bread crumbs, head tossed back, and eyes an inch from the overhead pendant-light.

It happened in less than a minute; her first orgasm in over a year and it pulled her shoulders to the counter and she grabbed the edge with clenched fingers. She wrapped her legs around her husband's shoulders and moaned and squirmed and thrashed until it was over and she sat up and reached down and he was still soft. "What happened?" she asked between heaving breaths.

Hyde turned away and pulled up his pants. "Maybe tomorrow."

"Hydey? I'm sure I can—"

"Not tonight, Kay. Later."

* * *

Hyde didn't sleep that night. He left his wife in bed. He thought of Will. He smoked a cigarette in the backyard and strained to recall the arrangement of letters and numbers in a digital name once scribbled across his palm. _Apricot-something-or-other._

* * *

Per their contract with the stage, the production of _Madame Butterfly_ was required to stop their build for an hour long service on Sunday morning. The stage managers held the work. Several joined the congregation.

Sarah sat alone. Hyde and Kayla wouldn't make eye-contact anymore and Janie was in the back row with Megan's family. Her husband—her sickly-glorious husband with his fresh cast and blubbering naiveté—was backstage awaiting his recognition with the minister of their church. _Their church?_ The only time they attended The Church of the Dunes was when they hosted a service at the theater.

News about Will's accident helped fill seventy more seats than last week's Catholic mass, bringing the total congregation to approximately three-hundred-fifty casually dressed believers.

Sarah didn't want to feel this way about her husband. She wanted to love him. She longed to discover that attraction to his creative ambitions. She wanted to tell him the truth because this lie was dragging her down like a chain-gang of elephants and she needed to break free before she was trampled. The lie—or hidden truth, rather—was making itself visible. Less than a week after Kayla's confession, Will was already asking Sarah why she was upset.

_Because I don't know how to lie!_ she wanted to scream.

Hyde appeared in the seat beside her. He handed over the first check. She dropped it in her purse.

The minister concluded the morning announcements with news that the amphitheater's generous owner was injured in a stage accident. He called William from the right-wing, then detailed the disaster for a stunned crowd.

By the time the minister's summary of events was complete, William was blameless in the mauling of his fingers. It was a freak accident, perhaps part of God's mysterious plan. Three pastoral elders crossed the stage bearing a bushel of daisies and a fifty-dollar gift card for a spa. They thanked William for the weekly donation of his venue, made a joke about shaking his hand, declared his three rotting fingers "tiny martyrs," and prodded the audience to a standing ovation.

Before the prank, Sarah had been a part of the church choir. There were twenty of them now, grouped center-stage behind William, hands raised, clapping, swooping and swaying with red robes and hallelujah voices. She saw old friends on stage. She missed them.

When Will began to dance, Hyde put his hand over Sarah's. He squeezed, and he left.

The congregation clapped; most were on the beat while others swayed in accidental syncopation. Some stood reverently still with their eyes closed and palms aimed at heaven. Morgan Demfield was among the righteous, arms in the air, praising God, forgetting that she condemned the theater in voice and in print. Sarah stood still too, but her eyes were open and watching the top curve of the bandshell. _Something wasn't right._ On the left slope of the curved ceiling hung a tooth. It had the shape and texture of a shark's tooth with faded veins of yellow decay. It could have been some obscure prop from _Madame Butterfly_ , but when Sarah looked right, the opposite tooth was already wiggling its way through the plaster.

* * *

June

"You know what you need? A pink flamingo for your yard."

"You know what you need? A lawnmower."

Hyde and Will kicked back on the wicker and enjoyed their twentieth porch-date since the accident. Hyde wasn't keeping track, but Kayla worked four evenings a week so the math was simple enough.

"I like messin' with the HOA. Six-and-a-half inches; what's the worst they can do to me?"

"They can throw you in jail. It's happened before."

"In Brandywine?"

"Not yet. But there's always a first."

A stream of Puccini's _Madame Butterfly_ flooded the Brandywine streets and homes with dark, melodic pretension.

Will must have sensed Hyde's distaste. "I can get you free tickets for tomorrow's show."

"Ha! I don't think I'd 'get' opera."

"Puccini's operas are otherworldly, but I must say I'm sick of it too. Especially the guy who thinks Pinkerton is supposed to sing every high note a touch flat."

"Only two more days?"

"And 'Butterfly' is out."

"What's next?"

"Another weekend dance competition, then back to church services on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights. I've got the rights coming in for some old Shirly Temple movies too."

"I'd put a gun to my head if Kay decided to dance in that show. Sparkle Motion was enough competition for one year, and we still have nationals next month."

"In Chicago," Will drew out the "a" with his best midwest accent. "We'll get 'em here next year."

"Is Janie still practicing... what was it? 'Ave Maria'?"

"Every day."

Hyde cracked the top off his beer and caught the foam in his lips. It was his second summer in suburbia and he already loathed the neighborhood conventions. The bird houses, the tiki-torches, the plastic swing sets. The bees were back in numbers that exceeded last year's swarm but he didn't mind them anymore. He enjoyed watching the bugs dance and sway with Puccini's opera. And if a rogue bee found his way into his beer, then good for him. _Drink up little buddy._

"Does it make you nervous?" he asked and nodded to the fresh holes and mounds on the lot next door.

"Nervous? Nah. I've still got a while."

(There was more on Hyde's mind tonight than opera, bees, and suburbia, but finding the right moment was essential. His heart fluttered at every potential opening, but before he could muster the courage, the relevant topic changed and he kicked himself for the missed opportunity.) "How are the tiny martyrs?" he asked. "Done with the sling already?"

Will lifted his left hand. "The sling got in the way." A plaster shell locked all four fingers in place and continued down his hand and enveloped his wrist. Janie's name was written in red marker on the crusted palm with a heart dotting the "i". His free, yellow thumb served as a barometer for the severity of the hidden bruises.

"Can't feel anything?"

"My pointer still has nerve endings. I can feel the fingernail rattling around in there." He held the cast to his ear and shook it. "I can hear it too."

The screen door wheezed and Janie stepped out with a glass of water and a pill. "It's seven."

"Thanks honey," Will pinched the pill and accepted the water.

Janie held up a fork. "What's this doing out here?"

Will looked to Hyde for help. "Mr. Whitaker was just showing me his new silverware. Right Hyde?"

"Yeah! We bought a whole set from JCPenny's last night. You like it?"

Janie punched her dad in the good shoulder and pocketed the utensil. "Don't scratch your arm with forks! You're shoving germs in the cast. Do we need to go over the doctor's orders again?"

Hyde covered his smile behind his beer. "Busted."

"And Mr. Whitaker," Janie turned to Hyde, "hasn't anyone told you it's rude to drink in front of someone in recovery?"

Hyde nearly choked on his gulp. "I'm sorry, Janie. I did ask permission first."

She looked at Will. "You're okay with this?"

"I told him it's fine, sweetie. I've been sober since before you were born, but thank you for the concern."

Janie's pocket buzzed. Before Hyde could blink, the phone was in her hand with the keyboard flipped out and thumbs zipping across the micro-keys like Superman entering the kill-code on a time bomb. She snapped it shut, ran a finger behind her ear to hold back hair, then leaned down to kiss Will on his beard.

When she was back inside, Will said, "That phone was the worst Christmas present ever."

"She's growing up."

William chanted, "She's thirteen going on seventeen. _Inn-o-cent as a rose._ "

"How's the writing?"

Will made a whirlpool in his water glass. "I've been digging through my old notes... I was a crazy kid."

"No kidding."

"Some of them are good. If I can just put the pieces together—find a through line—I think I can write a great play."

"I'm counting on it."

"Back in the day I would take pills to help my concentration. I smoked pot to help my creativity and I drank to calm my brain. Things are harder now, but slow and steady... right?"

A bee landed on Hyde's forearm. He flicked it away and the bugger smacked the railing and dropped.

"Do me a favor." Will pointed to the ground by Hyde's foot. "Grab that twig."

Hyde bent over to grab the stick, then tossed it to his friend's lap.

Will pinched it between his thumb and cast, then scraped the buds off with his nail. When it was clean, he wiggled the tip into the sliver of space between his arm and the plaster. "That's it," he moaned, sliding the stick it in and out. _"Right there."_

The noisy spring on the screen door made Will jump and he ripped the twig from his cast and tossed it on the ground just before Sarah's eye-line rounded the corner. "Good evening, beautiful," he said. "Need help with dinner?"

Sarah set a twenty-dollar bill on the table between the men. "I want Arby's. Janie wants McDonald's. We have drinks in the fridge."

"If you're in the mood for something nicer, I don't mind cooking."

"You're going to infect your arm if you keep scratching it with twigs." She plodded back into house, leaving Will to stare at the money.

This probably wasn't the appropriate opening Hyde was waiting for, but Will would leave for dinner soon and it couldn't wait another day. "Will, I..." he paused. He suddenly realized how difficult it was to tell his friend about the knotted feeling stuck between the back of his heart and his spine.

The wrinkles on Will's forehead furrowed in long black creases. "Something on your mind?"

"Yeah. I need to talk."

Will pressed his head against his forearm in a vain attempt to see down the gap in his cast. "The tone of your voice suggests this topic is best suited for the privacy of my truck?"

"You could say that."

Will dropped his cast to his side and gave Hyde the rare courtesy of direct eye-contact. "How does McDonald's sound?"

* * *

Hyde was always calling Betty "ancient", but Will considered his truck "venerable." Betty was named "Betty" because Will didn't know enough about cars to learn her real name; four-by-four, somethin'-or-other with rust-red paint and two missing hubcaps. As long as the wheels and engine moved his crippled ass from point A to point B, he didn't give a damn what she looked like.

Hyde slammed the glove compartment but it popped right back open.

"There's duct-tape at your feet," Will said. "Throw a piece on that latch if it's bugging you."

"I don't love Kayla anymore."

Will hit the break pedal instead of the gas and the car lurched forward. "Damnit, Betty!"

"I don't have anybody to tell. I have a thousand old friends, but nobody who really cares."

Will could handle Janie's drama; she was his daughter so he could be stern and logical. But buddy-buddy conversations of this caliber were the very reason he became a hermit. "I'm sorry. I didn't... Just... just make it work. That's my best—"

"I can't anymore. When I step back and look at my life and my future, _I can't_. It's been a year of tedium. I sit in the same living room as her... I sleep in the same bed as her... but she's just... gone."

"I thought she was doing better."

"She is. She has been. But I still feel trapped. I'm trying to tackle this from a spiritual perspective. I'm trying to determine God's will—"

"God's will is to make it work. Always. And I know you believe the same thing. Hit the left blinker for me, will ya?"

Hyde reached across the steering wheel and flipped the blinker lever down.

Will felt a trickle down his arm. "Shit. I think I scratched too hard." He balanced the steering wheel with his knee and wiped the blood with his finger. He smeared it on his jeans.

"I don't know if that's always true. Am I supposed to be miserable for the rest of my life? I'm twenty-seven; I have so many years to be happy. I made one mistake when I was young, and now I pay for it forever?"

"These are new feelings. You can't rush—"

"It was there from the beginning."

"Why did you get married?"

"I didn't know better."

"You gave your word. You made vows. Were they meaningless?"

"I don't think God wants me to be miserable."

"Was your word meaningless?"

"It was a mistake."

"You're not miserable."

"We don't have the same interests. I'm barely attracted to her. Our sex life is—"

"I don't care!" Will immediately regretted his outburst. If Hyde was serious about a lack of people to talk to, then Will owed it to him to listen. "You need to go to counseling."

"I don't know where to start with that."

"Throw a stone in Brandywine and you'll hit the house of a shrink. Guaranteed."

Hyde's head bounced with Betty's rusty shocks. His eyes were unfocused and distant. "We had sex for the first time on the morning after our wedding," he said. "We would have done it that night, but we traded the honeymoon convention for a redeye flight to Hawaii. Kay wanted a princess wedding and honeymoon. 'We're going to be poor for years,' she said, 'so let's go all out at the beginning.' I still had some inheritance money left, so we did it. We skipped the traditional wedding-night routine and got to the hotel at six in the morning. And it was _spectacular_. Gold arches, palm trees inside and out... a hundred swimming pools with fountains and waterfalls and little private coves. I tipped the bellhop when we got in the room. I closed the curtains and turned off the lights, but the room still had this yellow glow. We knew what we wanted to do. We were both virgins, about to perform God's will, bathed in yellow sunlight with those yellow walls and those yellow sheer curtains. We proceeded with all the awkward motions. We hugged and kissed and I took her to bed. And we did it. We had sex, and it was fine. Awkward, but fine. And then I was laying under those covers, bathed in that yellow light, in absolute paradise with the sound of waves and smell of sea-salt coming through the gap in the window. I looked at her. She was smiling. She told me she loved me. I told her I loved her. But I had this _rock_ in my stomach, Will _._ It was small back then; just a pebble. But there it was, living inside me, telling me that something wasn't right, that I had rushed into it, that I made a mistake that I would someday regret. I ignored it. When I felt it again later, I ignored it again. Then everything collapsed... maybe it was the move. Maybe it was the new studio or the new store. But the stone in my stomach turned to a boulder and I can't ignore it anymore."

The dribble of blood reached Will's elbow but he barely notice. "That's a horrible way to go through life, Hyde. My heart goes out to you. You came to me for advice, and I'll give it to you."

"Okay."

"Love is a choice. You don't want to hear that right now, but it's true. You can make it work if you try. I want you to find a marriage counselor, and I want you to give it a year. If three-hundred-and-sixty-five days go by and you know in your heart and mind that you gave it all you could, then I think a divorce would be the acceptable thing to do. But I want you to promise me you'll work on it."

"Yeah."

"You wanted my advice. That's it. You don't have to take it, but don't make me a promise you know you can't keep."

"I know."

"Will you do that? Will you give it a full year?"

"I will. I promise."

"Every marriage has challenges. If you want a good example, you can look across Brandywine Drive and into my window. The Carmel family isn't immune, even after twenty-four years of marriage. Sarah's been cold to me since the accident. I don't know why, but I think she thinks that if I didn't build the stage, this wouldn't have happened. Now she's cold. She's distant. She barely kisses me at night. But it's something we're working on. Our marriage— _every_ marriage—has ups and downs. But the downs make us stronger, and as long as we communicate with each other and choose to love one another, the ups will come flying back. And I can't wait." The men had been sitting in the McDonald's parking lot for five minutes. "Grab that roll of duct-tape for me, will ya?"

Hyde reached beneath his seat and handed the tape to Will.

He stretched it out a few inches and ripped a piece off with his teeth. He pressed his forearm away from the cast and worked the tape inside the gap, then did his best to bandaid the new cut.

"That can't be sanitary," Hyde said.

"Consider what we talked about. If you give it your all, your marriage will work."

"I will."

"Keep me updated. You can't drop something like this on me and not tell me how it goes."

"Don't tell Sarah."

"Of course."

"I know you tell each other everything."

"This is different."

"Thanks, Will."

"Anytime."

* * *

Every weekday morning, eight o'clock sharp, Chase's phone woke him up with a beep and a buzz telling him that he received a completely original, get-ya-through-your-day text from Janie. Sometimes she gave him a reason why she liked him. Sometimes she told him about a dream. Sometimes she outlined her plans for her day and Chase would write it down so he could visualize her in her surroundings.

Though he really liked to sleep, his body's internal alarm always predicted Janie's text and began the wake-up process early. Fading between dreams and consciousness, those waking moments were dedicated to memories of their night on the catwalk and he hugged the pillow between his legs. He imagined touching her. Not the "Carter" kind of touch. Janie told Chase everything about that pervert and the things he whispered to girls at recess and his rise with Tracy to "middle-school power-couple" at Janie's expense. No, Chase wasn't like that. _He wanted to touch her hand._ He wanted to touch her face. He wanted to feel her cheek against his and those thoughts mixed and melded into a mental collage that carried him through his day.

To Janie, other boys were just that: other boys. Her new confidence and air of pleasant superiority masked the scar on her face and the "other boys" became satellites in constant orbit when she walked in the lunchroom. They passed her handwritten notes with hopeful anxiety and Janie accepted them with a smile then tossed them, unopened, in the foot of her locker. When a lab partner kissed her smooth cheek one Friday afternoon, Janie slapped his face, then apologized and explained that she already had a boyfriend.

From 8:45 to 2:30, Chase dissolved into eighth-grade oblivion. He had friends, three or four, but they weren't very nice.

Afternoons brought a quick call and a dozen texts. Janie's dance lessons consumed three full hours, four days a week. Chase filled the time with homework, friends, or odd jobs at the Sparkle Motion warehouse. Whether he was repairing a string of lights on a fiberglass backdrop, or implementing last-minute changes in the programs, technology helped them stay connected.

Six-hundred-and-eighty miles apart, but Janie's moon was Chase's moon and their mutual orb burned with enough energy to mend the distance. With eyes and lips buried in her pillow, Janie whispered her hopes and desires into the electronic receiver and lost her secrets in the labyrinth of Chase's mind. The foundation of her trust began on that late catwalk-night when she confided in him the speaker secret. Chase never uttered a word after that date, keeping his vow to lock his lips and throw away the key. Now, Janie told him things that she wouldn't divulge at the craziest sleep-over or the most intense game of Truth or Dare: fears about her parents and gossip about the neighbors.

"Something's wrong with Hyde and Miss Kayla," she said one night in June. "They act so happy, but they're not."

"How can you tell?"

"Introverts are observers. This scar may be ugly, but sometimes it lets me see inside people. I don't think he likes her anymore."

Another night, Janie spoke about her father's accident. "When the bandages come off, his fingers will be different. They'll have scars and they probably won't work. I like that. I like that he'll have scars."

One fear stood above the rest. "My parents don't talk anymore," she said. Goose down muffled her monologues and Chase pressed his ear to the phone to better hear her voice. Whether or not he could decipher every word, he would tell her that he was with her, that his arms were around her, that his breath was in her ear instead of the phone. He whispered words of encouragement, of adoration, of gratitude.

And Janie slept easier. She remembered his love, and she texted him in the morning.

The remaining spring weekends brought Chase to every corner of the States. Seattle, Anaheim, Boston, Atlanta; he found himself "knee-deep" in a country full of scantily clad dancers.

The jump from fourteen to fifteen tore across his body like a bulldozer. Unfamiliar chemicals surged through his system, infecting his thoughts and inflaming his desires, _but every dancer looked like Janie_. On late work nights, Chase would hide from Hank in the hotel bathtub and open up to Janie about new feelings as if she too was developing male sex organs. She laughed with his embarrassment and never made him feel uncomfortable about his new body.

Now, when a Sparkle Motion dancer made her exit into his wing, it had nothing to do with her interest in Chase.

The couple's long-distance routine remained tolerable with the promise of the Sparkle Motion National Championship in July. The limited time they would have together was planned a month in advance, and Janie kept a list of midnight ideas and plots to escape her mother, teacher, and friends. Chase studied an online blueprint of the Chicagoland theater and found the ideal restroom to adhere a laminated "Boy's Changing Area" sign. The onsite staff would keep the door unlocked for Sparkle Motion use, but the room was inconvenient enough so that male dancers wouldn't use it. For five short days, every break would be spent kissing Janie in that bathroom.

Several adults actually found the balls to tell Chase that a serious girlfriend at his age was foolish. He laughed, muttered "Yeah, you're probably right," and pitied them. He knew what crushes were like; he knew infatuation. Janie was different. _He would die for her._ And to Chase, that simple fact was all that mattered in his entire world.

* * *

July

In the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth.

In the living room, William Carmel wrote his first screenplay in years.

Will was sick of putting off the good stuff. All the managing and producing and business blah-blah-blah was dragging him down like a ballerina in lead shoes. It took the crushing deformity of three fingers to re-spark his motivation to pursue the real reason for building the theater: _creation._

"Don't forget your appointment this afternoon."

"Three-thirty?"

"It's your last visit. Please do what they tell you and we're in the clear with this mess, okay?"

"Alright, beautiful. Have a fantastic time with the girls."

"Goodbye, Will."

Sarah, Janie and Kayla were about to spend the week with nearly three-thousand-five-hundred other dancers at the Sparkle Motion National Championships in Chicago, Illinois. Will wanted to see Janie dance, but the renewed ambition to write a play (coupled with the opportunity to work without Sarah's cold-shoulder) kept him at home for the week.

Last month, Will determined that Sarah's newfound reservation was not only justified, but stemmed from several of his own actions. First, there was the floundering lawsuit. Sarah assumed that someone from the fly system company would pay their medical bills after the accident. But when Will met with their lawyers, the case was laid out simply and clearly: Mr. Carmel was completely at fault for his own injuries. He cut costs by installing two lift lines per batten instead of the recommended five, and he paid a worker from the theater's construction company fifty dollars to attend a mandatory safety lesson in his place. Had Mr. Carmel taken the lesson himself, he would have known the proper procedure for adding and removing counterweights which would have prevented his injury. There was an inspection before the accident and an inspection after the accident. They both showed that all safety systems were in perfect working order; Mr. Carmel simply disregarded them when removing the batten and drape.

Will didn't need a lawyer to know he was screwed.

If this was the first time Will made dangerous decisions that resulted in a failed lawsuit, Sarah may have forgiven him. But he was also at fault in the chorus-room-turned-storage-room debacle.

Reason number two for Sarah's anger? _Money._ Their current financial situation was by no means dire, but unexpected theater expenses were piling up quickly. Will was certain they'd be able to book the fall and winter months to stay afloat, but Sarah wasn't as optimistic. Two upcoming summer concerts and a repertory production of _The Color Purple_ would fill the seats for three days each, but movie nights, church services, recitals, and local plays wouldn't mend the financial gaps. Before the ladies left, Sarah took him aside. "While we're gone, find a real job. Olive Garden is just over the hill."

Will knew the third reason for Sarah's frigidity must be his lack of artistic motivation. He spent months blubbering about his creative visions; how he would write plays and songs and the Carmels would become the Von Trapp Family Singers on their beautiful new stage.

He would rectify "reason number three" this week. When his wife returned home in five days, he would present her with the first draft of a completed play... and _she_ would be the star.

The last few months were spent pouring over old notes, piecing them together to find new angles on old ideas and re-filing the snippets that weren't suitable for this play. Now it was time to put the pieces together.

In preparation for his Week of Creative Freedom, Will bought eight cans of tuna, two loaves of white bread (that Sarah never let him eat), canned peaches, baby carrots (and other brain food), sunflower seeds, and ten two-liters of Coca-Cola. He also purchased writing supplies: three sizes of index cards, black markers for big notes, ball-point pens for small notes, Scotch tape, notebook paper, and multicolored thumbtacks.

Will rarely opened the sliding barn door at the rear of the stables, but his former life was buried inside and he needed supplies. He stepped cautiously across the frail wooden planks and peered through open knot holes into the coughing blackness of the ancient bomb shelter. A trapdoor and rickety ladder led the way to a hollow tomb the size of a VW Bus. If Will's life was a movie, there might be gold bricks or sensitive political documents beneath the dirt; instead, four mundane plastic bins sat in the darkest corner.

From the shelter, Will resurrected two cork boards, brushed off the spider sacks, and set them side-by-side on the fireplace mantle. The righthand corners of his original 1982 untitled "Ray-Ray" screenplay were beveled with mouse-nibbles, but Will was just glad to find a surviving copy.

By two in the afternoon, the real work began. Will's first tunafish sandwich sat beside the fresh office supplies on the end-table. Relevant binder-notes were scattered arbitrarily across the broken piano's lid. The family computer was repositioned to the left of the cork-board mantle, creating a U-shaped work space with William at the center.

He paced the room. He nibbled his sandwich. He washed sunflower shells from his teeth with Coke. He unclipped his new soft bandage, tightened it around his wrist, and re-secured it. He blasted classic rock from the computer speakers until it became white noise and settled his mind.

_Ah ha!_ His brain produced its first pearl of the day and he scrambled for a notecard, instinctively reaching his crippled hand to the office supplies. He grunted at his obvious mistake, grabbed a card with his right hand, set it on the piano, grabbed a pen with his right hand, elbowed the notecard to the piano surface, then wrote—with his non-dominate hand—lopsided letters like a three-year-old learning to spell his name. Will tried to reread the first word. It was illegible. He slammed the pen down. _What good were notes if he couldn't read them later?_ Repeating the slippery idea over and over, he spun to the computer, fumbled with the mouse, searched the icons for a word processing program, tried three times to double click the damn mouse, and accidentally opened a photo of a ballerina. The bandage clip loosened again and Will lost his train. He snapped off the other clips, twirled the bandage into a ball, and tossed the mess to the floor. He inspected his fingers; they looked like the gnarled branches of a tree-house tree.

Will remembered his idea and successfully double clicked the icon for the word processor. The cursor became an hourglass.

He waited. And waited. And waited.

He wiggled the monitor. Nothing happened. He clicked around the screen, but the hourglass continued to spin. "Son of a bitch!" he yelled and clapped both hands into the sides of the screen, forgetting—once again—that his fingers were broken and unprotected. Because of the nerve damage, Will didn't feel the hard plastic of the monitor until his nails were touching the back of his hand.

He screamed. He keeled over and fell to the floor. He released a string of obscenities that would have turned his daughter into an adult in six filthy seconds. In his fingers, the pain felt like a hundred mosquito bites; in his lower hand, it felt like thumbtacks. He tried to flex but the joints were rigid. He pressed the top of his fingers into the shag carpet and gently rolled them into a fist. The position relaxed the tension on his hand and thumb, and Will held the relief in his lungs.

Ultimately, nothing was lost. The mental repetition helped him remember his note. He cranked up the music, yelled "Screw you!" to the computer, and wrote one tedious letter after another until the full idea was legibly scrawled on a notecard.

For ten minutes, the sun poured orange light into Will's workspace. The harsh beams were distracting and brought back the story of Hyde's honeymoon. Since their discussion in the McDonald's parking lot, Will made several uncharacteristic attempts to ask his friend about any progress, but Hyde would say, "Nothing yet," and William would remind him of his promise to find a counselor.

During those unproductive moments in the sun, Will realized that he missed his doctor appointment by nearly six hours.

He could reschedule tomorrow.

Another tuna sandwich (with potato chips crushed in with the fish) and Will sat among the orange shafts. He guzzled the first two-liter, then began a recycling pile on the couch. The extra caffeine would get him through the evening. He was most productive at night.

By five in the morning, his characters were performing their own plays in William's mind. He no longer needed to invent the dialogue, he simply transcribed what he heard.

Day Two of Creative Freedom began on the floor with a notebook-pillow and no blankets, then proceeded with a one-two punch to Will's gut. Punch number one came in the form of discoloration on his left hand. He ran the sickly fingertips across the carpet and felt the expected sensation, though the fibers felt cold. A quick shake brought back some of the color... then he noticed punch number two: a sealed envelope wedged beneath the front door. Without standing, Will stretched his arm across the carpet and snatched the paper. It was a letter; the next letter in a series of letters from the letter-sending King, Mr. Jaxon Silverman with his usual blah-blah-blah and bull-bull-bull reminding Mr. Carmel (again) about phase fifteen and the impending neighbors and yeah-yeah-yeah to remodel the blah-blah-blah or he'd be forced to subpoena Mr. Carmel for la-de-da breach of contract. The typed correspondence concluded with some helpful suggestions and a signature in blue ink.

Jaxon actually thought he could get under Will's skin! (Little did the developer know, his taunts only fueled the creative process!)

After a beard-twirling, on-again-off-again writing session, Will remembered his typewriter. Of course! That immortal muse of Twain, Burroughs, Hemingway, and Kerouac! It took some effort and innovation to lift the light-blue beast from the depths of the bomb shelter, up the slivered ladder, across the front yard, and into the war room with only one hand. He swore it was ten pounds lighter in the eighties.

The downgrade in technology worked miracles; the typewriter provided the necessity of a computer with the simplicity of a pen and the aesthetics of a 1950s toaster. The computer remained useful by playing a hand-selected list of songs that carried Will to that special mindset, while his non-dominant pointer plucked out the revision, one key at a time.

Will took pride in his ability to turn stress into positive action. He could have moped for weeks after the counterweights stomped his piano dreams. But no! Not William! When God closed a door, resilient Mr. Carmel crawled through a window. _One key at a time._

Sometime around eight PM (clocks were useless in this stage), Hyde called. Will heard the ring, but the dialogue on page eighteen still sounded awkward, and there was no way he was breaking his flow over Hyde's marital problems.

BEEP. "Still alive in there, duuude? I know you're home because your damn lights never go off. Enjoying your solitude? I'm using my week of freedom to plug away at some man-work. I was gonna ask a favor... but you're obviously busy with the Manhattan Project over there. When your brain needs a rest—which I can promise you it will—do me a little favor. On your computer, click the 'network' button on the bottom menu with the mouse—it's the grey thing you put your hand on—and see if my new wireless signal pops up. Kay's been bitchin' about slow internet, so I souped things up a little. Call me." BEEP.

Four Excedrine per hour and forty cents in the recycling pile; by midnight, Will had enough caffeine in his system to excite Hunter Thompson. (His hand was mottled blue like a whale's belly. The dull ache was easily treated with the meds. If the color wasn't normal by morning, he would call the doctor.)

By six AM, Will's process had evolved into a streamlined factory of creative writing. New ideas for the current scene were typed out (often without punctuation), ripped from the top of the page, and pinned to the cork board beside the resurrected binder notes. When Will was satisfied with the amount of ideas, he stood back, recharged with a swig of cola, and considered the new layout of the scene. The chronology and relevance of every note was mentally processed in absolute silence while the computer blasted rock and roll. Nothing was touched during these moments of pure concentration, but when William got it, _he_ _got it_ , and his seven working fingers sprung to life and rearranged the scrambled notes into a useable order. He removed them one at a time, worked them into the new play, then crumpled and tossed them in the trash. Every completed page was pulled from the typewriter and taped to the window behind the piano-desk for final inspection. If it had less than five typos, it remained in the window and Will declared it complete. Finally, while noshing on a wedge of fruit, he read the original version of the next scene before starting the process over.

When the system ran low on fuel, Will used thoughts of Sarah to fill him up again. When he felt lightheaded and unmotivated, he recalled the way she shied from his touch, and the machine jumped into action. (Hell, the memory of her loveless gaze was the spark-plug for the whole machine.)

On the afternoon of Day Three, Will didn't hear the phone anymore. That distant jangling was simply another part of a world that existed outside his bubble; a world of ringing and dinging and knocking and revving with pattering rain from the broken gutter outside the paper-and-ink curtains.

BEEP. "Hey. Hope you're well. Janie placed first in lyrical, tap, and jazz. Duets and trios start today. Kayla seems stressed, but I'm pulling her through it. Our daughter has a boyfriend. She won't tell me about him, but whenever I turn around they're hugging or holding hands. Will... I miss you. I hope we can talk when I get home. Okay?" BEEP.

BEEP. "Hello, Mr. Carmel, this is Steve Mendez again. Like I said, the band's in Michigan at the end of September for their midwest tour and our venue in Ohio fell through, so we'll be spending an extra night in your glorious state. I was referred to your amphitheater by Pauline Woodstock; I checked it out and you guys are hot. We've got other options, but you're our number one choice if you're open. I gotta book this shit soon, so hit me back ASAP if the dates look good." BEEP.

Painkiller relief ceased at nine PM. Will's thumb and forefinger stood perky and proud beside their fallen brethren, now grey instead of blue. He lifted his hand to his nose. _Gross._ He used his right hand to touch the grey spots and found that all feeling was gone. _He had to call a doctor._..

But when the painkillers quit, so did the caffeine. With a single monstrous yawn, Will decided that a quick nap wouldn't hurt. He would call the doctor later.

_Damn..._ he thought as his body relaxed into the sofa. _At least the writing is brilliant..._

Four hours later, William awoke to the smell of dead flesh and the partial mummification of his left hand. The bruises became blisters of red infected puss. The pain was immeasurable.

He called 911. He called Hyde. And at seven AM on Day Four of Creative Freedom, three of his fingers were surgically removed.

**SEVEN - Marionette Strings**

August

The last profitable show of summer ended the second week of August. The singer was a local guy that Will never heard of, but his appearance on a reality TV show made him a Michigan hero and filled every seat in the theater. The artist was known for his combined singing, writing, and piano-playing talent, and the show apparently exhibited his abilities exquisitely.

For the first time since opening night, Will hired outside help to oversee the event's preparations. He stayed home during the piano-man's performances and blocked out every insulting note with the hard plastic of Janie's earphones.

Will had nightmares about his theater in the profitless months that followed. He dreamt the stage was like his left hand; a healthy extension of his body with performance-art as its lifeblood. When children danced and women sang, the stage thrived. But when the curtains were closed for extended periods of time, blood circulation slowed and the hardwood floor became like stagnant living tissue deprived of oxygen; blue and purple splotches with webs of visible veins. Arteries reopened in the form of church services and movie nights, but the relief was temporary and, when the events were over, the flecked purple dots turned grey. A thunderstorm at the end of July cancelled one service and stopping the blood supply for a full week. Will imagined veins of wrinkled death creeping up the green curtain and turning it black. Sepsis set in when the theater's dried skin spawned living bacteria and the wood warped and swelled in an attempt to rid itself of the infection. Gangrene would take over completely, infecting not just the theater's flesh, but the inside mechanisms required for production. The plastic seats grew bubbles of red puss and popped black. Swarming bacteria fed on the catwalk, spotlights, and fly system like piranhas on a bathing zebra.

It was fear of the smell that kept Will home in those stagnant months. In the hour before his surgery, his hand reeked of burning human waste. He stretched his bubbling fingers as far from his face as the gurney straps allowed and twisted his head and nose in disgust, but the smell was inescapable. Now he gagged at the thought of that oozing stage.

If the theater was truly as putrid as he imagined, there would be no saving it. The sharp edge of a scalpel would cut the infection out (it worked on his fingers!) but surgery had to be performed soon; if the bacteria escaped and descended the hill, the whole city would be at risk.

The wet gangrene put an end to Will's Week of Creative Freedom and put a halt to his plan to win back his wife. He tried to resume work after his recuperation, and even asked Sarah to keep his writing setup in the living room. But as much as he danced between the piano and typewriter and cork-board and notes, the magic never returned. A week ago, Sarah pulled down all thirty-six completed pages from the window and dropped the stack on Will's nightstand. If she scanned any portion of the script, she didn't expound.

The infection that ate Will's hand did not devour his theater. In late August, he finally braved the trek up the hill and prepared to shield his eyes from the horror, _but there was no decay_. In fact, nothing had changed since the last time he visited. The building just seemed... _lonely_.

Will ran the remaining third of his palm along the front of the stage, then patted the wood like one might pet a horse. "You're holdin' up better than me, old friend," he said.

The circuit breaker for the chorus room was kept off to save electricity, so Will grabbed a flashlight from the room below the hatch, then moved in.

The defined beam cut through the sawdust atmosphere like deep-sea footage of the Titanic. The chorus room had become the belly of the theater; eating and digesting remnants from every show. Will's light traced the scattered objects: a box of Sparkle Motion programs, a single tap shoe, shattered glass from a vanity bulb. A headless mannequin displayed a forgotten dress from the production of _Madame Butterfly_ and church programs tiled the floor and caught themselves between mirrors. Posters from every concert and play were signed _"To Will"_ by the performers and leaned in banded rolls against the brick.

A used condom graced the edge of the nearest vanity. Janie told him that the high school kids joked about having sex at the theater, but the rubber was the first evidence Will found of lewd behavior. Security had to be tightened... if he could find the funds.

He flipped off the light, closed the chorus-room door, and stood alone in the dark. He wasn't there to escape, he was there to _connect_. He fell to his knees and bowed his head against the cold floor. He clasped all seven fingers and prayed. He pleaded for forgiveness. He begged for another chance. He promised to do right by his wife and to love his daughter. And for the first time since the moment it happened, Will acknowledged the angel's second proclamation; her warning to stop production on the theater. He slammed his fist against the concrete and admitted disobedience in that folded fetal prayer. He apologized for _so deeply_ burying the memory of that night, then realized that his subconscious had devised a plan to continue with the construction and to plead ignorance after the fact.

Will cried, "I couldn't stop! I'm sorry I didn't stop!" With hands in the air, he released the fault into his covenant with God, he dispelled the act of self-deception, and he knew for certain that he was forgiven.

Over the autumn months, God's theater continued to take on qualities of the mundane. Pranks went out of style. Complaints stopped. Letters to the Editor returned to city-council gossip.

And William missed the controversy.

* * *

"Will came by my store for the first time in a year. Asked about the speakers."

"I don't care anymore. I washed my hands of that mess."

"I know, Kay."

"Are you worried he knows?"

"I'm worried Sarah told him."

"If he knew about the prank, Hyde, he'd tell you."

"What if he's testing me? What if he wants to see if I'll say something?"

"We barely see them anymore."

"I know..."

"This came in the mail."

"Another fine?"

"Seventy-five dollars."

"Fuck it."

"Don't swear."

"I'm not paying it."

"Hydey..."

"I'm not cutting my grass."

"Can you tell me why?"

"I'd like just one summer to live like him. I want _one year_ to stand outside these petty obligations."

"Obligations? Like your job? Like me?"

"I love my job."

"Why... why would you say that?"

"I didn't mean it like that, baby."

"So you love me too?"

"If Will doesn't have to cut his grass, then neither should I."

"Are you five? The Carmels aren't part of this subdivision, but we are! Those are the rules, Hyde. We signed a contract saying we'd cut the grass. If you don't do it, I will."

"He gets to build a theater in his backyard and it breaks curfew every night, but while he's up there dancing with the choir I get fined seventy-five bucks for the length of my grass!"

"I thought you loved Will. You're all buddy-buddy now."

"I feel bad for him."

"But you want to live like him?"

"My whole fucking life—"

"Don't swear."

"My whole fucking life has been _tedium_. I spent my childhood being a good boy and doing what was right. I spent my early twenties taking care of my mother, trapped in that hospital room for weeks at a time while trying to make something of myself. Now I spend every day buried in paperwork and loving you—"

"You love me because it's the right thing to do?"

"That's not what I meant—"

"It's what you said."

"I'm sorry."

"You're too young for a midlife crisis, Hyde."

"Unless I die at fifty-four."

"Is that why you drink now? Your little glass of _'one before bed because it helps me sleep'_ is part of a midlife crisis?"

"If you say so."

"Is this why you won't sleep with me?"

"Kayla..."

"Do you still want kids?"

"Of course I want kids."

"Are you going to leave me?"

"Of course not."

"Hyde... Are you going to leave me?"

"No, baby."

"I know things were bad before. I know I went crazy and I made things hard on you. But that's over. You understand? I'm getting my studio back together. And I just want you to cut the grass."

"Okay."

"Hyde?"

"Yeah?"

"I want you to know..."

"What?"

"...as long as I have you, I'm going to be okay."

* * *

September

"A couple good shows, Sarah. That's all it'll take!"

"'A couple good shows?' Do you know how many times I've heard that claim?"

"We'll get a call any day now—"

"Yeah? And would you even answer the phone if someone called?"

"That was one mistake."

" _Two mistakes_ , Will. We missed _two_ profitable shows because you were too busy writing to pick up the phone."

"It won't happen again. Please, honey. I need my wife back."

"I need my husband back..."

"What does that mean? I'm right here!"

"You're not."

"What changed in me? What do you see that's different? I broke my hand. I lost my fingers. But that doesn't mean I'm a different person!"

"You don't understand."

"Make me understand! You've been upset with me for three—"

"I'm not upset."

"You're cold."

"I'm confused."

"Confused about what?"

"I'm trying, William! With all my heart and mind and soul, _I'm trying._ "

"I'm working on a new script. I wanted to show you..."

"I read it."

"You read my script?"

"The one that was taped to the window? I read it."

"How was it? ...Sarah! How was it?"

"Brilliant. Your best work."

"See? It's still in me!And without drugs! I raised five mil with the Ray-Ray script. _And this one is better._ I just need my chance!"

"When did I stop being enough for you? There was a time when I was all you needed."

"You're still all I need."

"Really, Will?"

"Really."

"What if I asked you to tear down that theater right now? What would you do?"

"You wouldn't ask. It's a bullshit hypothetical."

"Is it? Okay William Carmel— _husband-of-mine_ —I want you to tear down that theater."

"You're not serious."

"I am. I want to be normal."

"You're not serious."

"I need the old Will."

"The old Will? How old? How far back do you need me to go? Ten years? Twenty? How about thirty? Do you want me to make a few calls from the Shoppe 'n Fill parking lot? I could meet up with Charlie Arson and have a grand ol' time!"

"You know what I want."

"And I'm trying to give that to you!"

"It's not working. You can't give me what I need with that theater still on that hill."

"I'm trying to do what's right. I'm trying to give you the world! And I'm trying to follow my dreams at the same time. Is that so wrong?"

"I wish you were normal..."

"What did you say? Sarah? _What did you say?_ "

"I said it's time for bed."

* * *

"Mom?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"Are you busy?"

"Never too busy for my angel."

"I need to talk."

"About Chase?"

"About Dad."

"Janie... Dad's going through some—"

"I don't need an explanation. I heard you fighting again last night."

"I don't like your tone, missy."

"You know I love you, right?"

"Janie—"

"I asked you if you know that I love you."

"Yes, I do. But you need to—"

"I don't pick favorites between you and Dad. You know that too, right?"

"Of course."

"I see where things are heading and I want you to understand that—if you and Dad separate—I'm staying with him."

"Janie Grace Carmel, don't you _dare_ talk like that. Your father and I—"

"I told you I don't need an explanation. I'm old enough to see the signs. I don't understand it, but I don't blame you either. And I know you would be the one to leave."

"My sweet girl... it will never to come to that. When we got married, your father and I agreed we'd never use the D-word. _Ever_. But if that did happen, this little tactic certainly wouldn't prevent—"

"It's not a tactic. I'm not trying to make you stay with Dad. If you don't love him, you don't love him. There's nothing I can do about that. But I'm letting you know that I can't leave him alone, and I don't want you to try to stop me from staying. Do you understand?"

* * *

October

"I remember this exact scene from thirty years ago. You remember, Will? I brought you to this hill to show off my ambitious vision for a field of dead corn. It's the same hill, the same house at the base with the same slate roof... who would've thought you'd spend your entire life in the same place?"

"Not everything stayed the same, Jax."

"What changed?"

"Me."

"Ah, that's right. You were different back then. You weighed fifty pounds less and you couldn't talk without slurring. You were a good negotiator too, even while drunk and high."

"I wasn't negotiating."

"No?"

"I simply had everything I needed. When I ran out of my inheritance—when I needed drug money—I took your offer."

"I heard your lawsuit against the fly system company fell through."

"It did."

"The medical bills must hurt worse than the hand."

"We're doing fine."

"And the theater? Do you have any upcoming shows?"

"We had a very good summer."

"I see."

"The point, Mr. Silverman?"

"Do you see those new houses beside yours? They'll have siding within the week."

"Fantastic."

"People will be living in them. Those people bought those homes knowing that their eccentric neighbor signed a contract to remodel."

"Take your contract and shove it up your ass."

"I'm not here to make threats, Will. I'm here to offer a way out."

"I've heard enough of your offers."

"I can assure you beyond any doubt, this is the last. Hear me out tonight, and I'll never make the Carmel family an offer again."

"I'd save your breath."

"Silverman and Binder is about to purchase a new piece of property about five miles west of Brandywine."

"Congratulations."

"The proposed development won't be as fun as Brandywine Gardens, but it's a good deal and we're very excited."

"Get to it, Jax. I'm watchin' a movie with my daughter tonight."

"The purchase will be finalized on October thirty-one. When that happens, it'll be ten years before the company will have the funds to consider other purchases. After October thirty-one, I'll be out of favors."

"And the offer?"

"For your house and hill, I can talk to board into 1.2 million dollars and a luxury home in Brandywine Gardens. That's half of what we offered you last year, but includes a mortgage-free home. If you agree to it, then I'll personally shred your conformity contract. You'll recoup your loss from the mistake with the theater, and you'll have enough left over to pay medical bills."

"That's quite an offer."

"Will you consider it? Maybe talk to Sarah—"

"No, Jax. Now please get off my hill."

"It's just a house, Will."

"I asked politely."

"Building this theater was a mistake. Accept that and—"

"My grandfather built that house. My parents died in it. It was my production company; my studio. My daughter was born there. She grew up there. Even if I was willing to throw away my theater—"

"You've been the world's savior for so long, Will. Give me the chance to help you."

"Don't put that shit on me."

"Count your fingers, Will. On your right hand you have your family, life savings, dignity, hill, and a spectacular new home. On the other hand, you have a profitless theater for a pointer, and a sinkhole house for a thumb."

"I'm keeping both."

" _If_ you remodel. Otherwise we'll sue and you'll lose those fingers too."

"I'll remodel it."

"Good. And if it's not finished by December, you'll be subpoenaed and sued for—"

"I said I'll do it. I'll remodel my home and I'll keep my theater and you can build your new development far away from here. Just give me more time."

"You've known about this for twenty-seven years—"

"I can't remodel the outside of my house in the winter."

"You should have thought of that before. I didn't want this for you, Will."

"A project this size will cost twenty to thirty grand—"

"Then mortgage your house! Get a home-equity loan! That's what normal people do when they can't pay cash for everything!"

"Give me until this summer. I'll have the money by then."

"I can extend it to June."

"July."

"No. If the exterior of your home doesn't look exactly like every other home in Brandywine by the first of June, I promise you Will, you'll lose everything."

"Your compassion overwhelms me."

"I'll send a list of appropriate colors for siding and I'll give you Stan's work number. He'll give you a list of retailers we use and you'll receive the same wholesale prices they give us. Will? Do you understand?"

"This time last year... people loved my theater..."

"You were a novelty, Will. People expected a miracle, but you gave them a normal, everyday amphitheater. When there's a concert they want to see, they'll go see it. Otherwise, they don't give a shit."

"Do not approach Sarah with this offer. Her name isn't on the deed and she has no say in the matter. If you talk to her, I'll destroy you."

"This isn't important enough for me to go behind your back. You have until the end of October to change your mind."

"Please leave my property."

"I'm leaving. But Will... if an offer like this ever comes around again, it'll be one-tenth of this. And there won't be anything I can do to save you."

"Thank you, Mr. Silverman. And have a pleasant evening."

* * *

November

Granola and Judy Bauer always provided Will with nuggets of warm cynicism. Their house looked the same as every other, properly cared for, showing no lack of respect for the HOA's covenants. It sat at the elbow of Brandywine Drive's final bend and, from the bottom of his driveway, Will could see the inflated fabric pumpkin at the end of their yard. The Bauer's pumpkin was never on display for Halloween. Every year, old Granola waited until the day after Thanksgiving, then inflated the decoration as a spirited "f-you" to Brandywine's technicolor Christmas sleaze. A letter from the HOA would arrive by the first of December, allowing him a week to remove the eyesore. One minute before midnight on the final day, Granola would turn off the electric pump and let the smiling jack-o-lantern shrivel to the ground.

But for now, the pumpkin stood fat and proud and Will gave the creature a nod.

Across the street from the Bauers (about eight houses down from Hyde and Kayla) Brian Cavenaugh stood on a ladder with a string of white Christmas lights draping neatly from a staple on the roof to a coil on his daughter's arm. Sherlock—taller and wider than Will—showed his optimism with a smile to every friend and stranger he passed. He was a gentle, awkward man that one couldn't imagine making love to a woman... yet the offspring at his side proved it happened at least once. The girl was Tracy, Janie's enemy. Her chin was turned up as she observed her father's skillful work with the stapler. When he lowered his hand, she lifted another clean loop of lights. The police cruiser sat in its usual spot on the street and still tricked Will into double checking his speed when rounding the corner. He wondered if it was Jolly-Saint-Cavenaugh who annually ratted out Bauer's pumpkin.

Part One of William's Christmas project sat on the grass at the end of his driveway: one hundred twelve-foot-long 1x3 boards to use as furring strips for the impending vinyl siding. The thin strips had to be nailed in vertical lines to the original surface, then the vinyl would be secured horizontally to the new wood. Will sported work gloves (with three limp fingers) to combat the slivers and a heavy canvas jacket to combat the twenty-eight degree chill. Back and forth, back and forth; he made the long trek from the street to the house with six strips at a time. When half of the wood was repositioned, he looked to his distant theater and mouthed _"I'm sorry."_

Two weeks ago, Sarah and Will bit the bullet and applied for a home-equity loan, marking the first time in his life that he owed someone money. After several days of slammed doors, dropped dishes and sarcastic remarks, he pointed out Sarah's passive-aggressive attacks and she finally clarified her anxiety through a series of highly controlled screaming fits, followed by a sincere attempt at an apology. The loan seemed to bring her one step closer to the edge, but Will still didn't know why.

Janie stepped onto the front porch, trading one cold mother for another. She wore a puffy violet coat, her favorite knit beanie, and woolen mittens. As she clomped across the yard to the stack of lumber, she brought with her the season's first snow. Small flecks salted the earth but she didn't look up. She smiled at Will but didn't speak, then wrapped her arms around three boards and pulled them toward the house with the ends dragging on frozen ground. One at a time, Will used his right hand to balance the boards on his left arm, then followed Janie to the new pile.

Father and daughter continued their silent routine until a single board remained in the driveway. The flakes grew to the size of hot-chocolate marshmallows and Will caught Janie's adorable lapse in self-control as she stuck out her tongue and wobbled her head to lap a piece of falling snow.

When she noticed him watching, she dusted off her mittens, composed herself, and asked, "What's next?"

"My toolbox."

"Where is it? I'll get it."

"Too heavy, but you can help."

"Kay."

Will walked toward the stables and Janie kept up with two giant steps for every one of his. At the door, he bit the tips of his gloves and freed his hands, then meticulously tried to separate the keys.

"Need help?" Janie asked.

"I've got it." Will wrangled the smallest key from his ring then unbolted and opened the door.

"Ew!" Janie exclaimed and grabbed her nose.

"I guess I should clear out the flowers."

"P-U!"

The workbench was still layered with gifts from people who believed the holy ground could heal. The colorful silk and plastic petals stood out amongst the mound of real flowers, now dead like clusters of prunes. There were candles too. Some were tall with white wicks, others were puddles of wax fused to the particleboard counter.

Janie pulled off her mittens, held them with her lips, took out her cell (again) and sent a text.

Will slid his toolbox from the shelf beneath the workbench. "How's that boy?"

"Misses me."

"You miss him too?"

"Sometimes."

"You sure text a lot for a boy you 'sometimes miss.'"

"Do you really know how to hang siding?"

"Yep."

"How did you learn to do that?"

"I grew up on a farm, remember? Sir taught me everything I know."

"Why do you call him that?"

"Respect."

"Why don't I call you that?"

"Because I like 'Dad.'"

"Oh." Janie's phone buzzed again and she flipped it back open.

Will gazed into the oak box. Most of the tools were plastic now—a bright orange level, a neon-green tape-measure—but his hammer was the same ol' hammer Sir bought him for his eighth birthday; the same hammer that failed to save his fingers. Two years ago, Will used the tool to hang lights on the front porch with Janie. They were the fatty kind of lights; all different colors with green strands. Sometimes a bulb would break and Janie would run inside, dive into the Christmas boxes, and retrieve a new one. She wore mittens back then too; fumbling to screw in the new bulb and Will would offer his help and she would tell him she was old enough to do it herself. Sarah would watch from the window, partially obscured by frost and steam from her drink, looking like the family's guardian angel. Back then the Carmels were more like the Cavenaughs with perfect strands of lights and a daughter's admiration. The last two years were turning Will into Granola Bauer, except Will's inflatable pumpkin sat on the hill instead of his lawn.

And nobody could make him take it down.

"Dad!"

He looked up from his tools.

Janie holstered her phone like a gunslinger, then wiggled her fingers back in the mittens. "You need to focus. Do you have what we need?"

He scanned the tools again, but the flashback kept tumbling through his mind. He picked up the level... then dropped it back in the box. "Janie," he said, "there's a reason God asked me to build that theater. Do you believe that?"

She didn't hesitate. "Yes."

"Remember when we talked about miracles when you were little?"

"You told me Mom was a miracle."

"Well, your old man is a hardcore skeptic, but there's one thing I still believe: I believe that God reveals himself."

"You're talking about the theater."

"A miracle will happen there. I don't know what or when or how, but I need time to figure it out." He studied Janie's reaction, then reached into the cigar cabinet.

"What's up there?"

He removed a plain shoebox and carefully placed it on the workbench as if it held nitroglycerin. "I'll let you decide what to do on your day off." He pointed to the tool box. "Do you want to help me hang furring strips?" He pointed to the white box. "Or should we have some fun?"

Janie studied the boxes. "I know that it's important to start working on the house. But I also want to know what's in the box."

Will grinned, then heaved the toolbox back on its shelf. He grabbed Janie under her arms and lifted her to the workbench. She sat at his level. He placed his gloved hands on the box to guard its secrets.

"If we want to see a real miracle on that hill, we need to keep the theater open, right?"

"Right."

"And if we want to keep it open, we need people to show up, right?"

"Right."

"And if people show up, Mom won't be so upset anymore, right?"

"Right."

"Do you remember our Christmas show last year?"

"It was freezing," she said. "And not very many people came."

"But what if they came this year? What if we could get a whole bunch of people to come? What if we create a little miracle of our own to get people excited?"

"What do you mean?"

"I was in Whitaker Electronics last month and Hyde showed me something pretty neat. I bought these with cash from from his new store so he wouldn't know what I was up to."

"What _are_ you up to?"

Will pulled back the box's lid and removed a tiny device.

Janie didn't say a word, but extended her hand with the curio on her mitten.

"It's a wireless speaker," he said.

"I know."

"We can play music through them from our computer, but I need you to show me how."

Janie inspected it.

"I ordered six. We can hide them in the theater and play music at night when it's supposed to be closed. The bandshell will amplify the sound all over Brandywine, and we won't tell anybody it's us. We can have experts come to check the electronic equipment, but they won't find anything. Then we'll play music every night until the Christmas show, and people will tell their friends and family and we'll fill the seats! How does that sound?"

"It sounds crazy..." Janie handed the speaker back to Will.

"But fun?"

She nodded. "Yeah, it'll be fun."

Will spoke more to himself than his daughter. "If this works, we can charge whatever we want for admission. We can pay off that damn loan, pay builders to do the remodel, and—"

"I thought you didn't charge people for church services?"

"This is different, honey. It's a special event."

"Oh."

"We can start now; December's only a few days away. Remember the golden Easter eggs?"

"What about them?"

"I let you hide them because you were growing up. You proved that I could trust you. Now I know I can trust you with this."

"You really think it will make people believe in us again?"

"I do." Will helped Janie to the ground, then closed the lid on the speakers.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, sweetie?"

"What do we tell Mom?"

* * *

Within a month of the library reunion and their Burger King date, Sarah Huggins moved in with William.

The crooked house at the end of Brandywine Drive was still in need of a woman's touch, though it was nothing like the web of debris she remembered from the "bad times." A day of work (with Will's help!) was all it took to transform the house back into their home.

The first few months brought new struggles to Sarah's placid heart. Thoughts began to surface; thoughts that she normally buried because they were too despicable. _There were times she hoped to catch William in a lie._ She knew it was wrong, but if she _caught_ him smoking or drinking, then at least she would know she had the truth. As long as Will stayed clean, Sarah was on guard to get hurt.

But William sensed her fears. He stopped hanging out with friends. He called her every hour (on the hour) when he went out for groceries. He quit using wood cleaner and cinnamon gum to hide questionable smells, and he let Sarah sniff him like a hound every night before "couple time." He did these things without complaint, and even suggested new ways in which she could help him stay on track.

Sarah had a difficult time coming to terms with their new routine. On one hand, she didn't trust her boyfriend to act responsibly on his own, and she knew she wouldn't be able to handle the pain if he slipped again. On the other hand, she didn't want to be controlling. She held a tighter leash on William than she expected to have on her future children, and even though she knew it was necessary, she hated herself for it.

As part of their dating agreement, he promised he would attend Sunday sermons with an open mind. A new church sprung up on Boulevard and peaked Sarah's interest. She attended a service alone to investigate their belief system, and when she was certain it meshed with her own, she brought her boyfriend.

William was surprisingly accepting of The Church of the Dunes. Sarah knew that his pursuit of logic clashed with the bulk of the sermon, but he kept bitter comments to himself. He even mouthed the words to the hymns and—on the way home—complimented the organ player. The only time he seemed uncomfortable was during refreshments and fellowship when several church-members introduced themselves. He reacted to their outstretched hands as if customary handshakes were a foreign gesture, then piddled his way through small talk until Sarah said, "It was nice meeting you," and pulled him away.

The duality of Will's social existence puzzled her. When William was Bill, he was in his element around people. Back then, there seemed to be layers of friends, employees, women from Chicago to Brandywine, and a network of drug connections only a call away. But then he told her stories of his solitude, trapped in the house while using, safe in the house while getting clean... months and years without human interaction and even now—when Sarah dragged him to a church or a family function—he couldn't handle it. His body tensed and his palms became clammy. At a head and shoulder above the rest, Will said he felt out of place in his own skin; hunched over with a distant voice and weak sense of humor.

Sarah finally got it: William's social behavior was strongest when he was in a dominant role. When a group was placed under his command, his underlings became his buddies. When "Bill" was forced to converse with his equals where manners and small talk were expected, he relied on drugs to loosen him up. Weed calmed his nerves. Speed accessed his sense of humor, often turning the evening's entertainment into "The Billy Carmel Hour." When Sarah took away his stimuli, she unknowingly clipped his wings.

Christmas Eve of 1986: William gathered logs from the back half of the stables from a pyramid of wood he cut as a child. As the story went, Billy and his father spent a full month dismantling a thirty-foot maple that had grown too close to the house. Will told Sarah that splitting timber made him buff—that he was never stronger than he was that summer— _but he hated every repetitive minute of that mindless job._

The twenty-year-old logs burned easily. The flue sucked whirls of black smoke from the chimney to the night, and Sarah made love to William in the warmth. When his cheek settled against her chest in a rare position of subordination—without any prodding from Sarah—he asked about God. Sarah spiraled his hair around her finger like the phone cord from her mother's kitchen and answered his questions simply and clearly. His thoughtful pauses were accompanied by wandering fingers through her body's crevices. When a thumb found her lips, she kissed the patch of hair on the knuckle. The hands stopped when he asked another question, then resumed their exploration as he considered her response.

Sarah pointed out God's visible hand at work in William's life. Whenever Bill was at his worst, he was saved by the grace of God. When he was aching to leave the fields, he found an internship in Chicago. When he hit rock bottom in Chicago, he was given a new life back in Michigan... and a two million dollar land deal. When he tried to boost his creativity with drugs, God gave him a woman who loved him.

No ultimate truths were discovered that night, but Sarah had planted the seed. For the second time that evening, the couple made love by fading glow of the neon embers.

* * *

December

On Friday, they made their plans.

On Saturday, they hid the speakers. Will determined the exact placement so the sound would reverberate to the greatest potential while staying hidden from the skeptics.

On Sunday—while Sarah was shopping for groceries—they recorded the music. Janie attached one of Will's old microphones to the computer and recorded him playing "O Holy Night" on the untuned piano. He altered the melody to the minor key to give it a haunting quality, then played it simply and methodically, one note at a time with his right hand.

Fall on your knees.

O, hear the angel voices!

O, night divine!

It snowed again on the first of December; real, lake-effect snow that non-Michiganders would never understand. Within an hour, Brandywine was covered from porch to chimney and Will shoveled the driveway drifts into giant heaps of winter-wonderland as Janie prayed for a snow-day.

They waited until 7:30 to begin their work. Will coaxed Sarah into a relaxing bath, and when they were certain she was preoccupied, the gruesome-twosome plopped into chairs by the family computer and Janie took control.

"Ha!" she exclaimed.

"What?"

"I can connect to Mr. Whitaker's wireless router. That would be easy to hack."

"What did I tell you about using your powers for evil?"

"I'm kidding, _Dad_."

"How do our speakers look?"

"The USB wireless connector is on and working. That's what sends the signal from the computer to the speakers on the stage. The song is on the desktop. This little symbol means the speakers are fully connected and it says they have ninety-nine percent battery power remaining. We're at full volume, locked and loaded. All we need to do is push play."

"Think they'll be loud enough?"

"Guess we'll find out. But if people do hear it, will they even care? I'd probably roll my eyes and go back inside."

"Some people might do that, but who knows? It'll be a little sociology experiment."

"Affirmative."

"Ready, captain?"

"Can I push it?"

Will patted his lap and Janie jumped up. "Go for it, little lady."

"I'm nervous," she whispered.

"Me too," he whispered back.

"Should I do it?"

"Want me to count to three?"

"I think that'll help."

"Okay. Ready?"

"Yeah."

"One... Two..."

Janie bit her lower lip, looked at Will, and raised her brows.

"Three!" he said and she clicked play.

The world was so quiet they could hear a mouse fart in Hyde's house. Will watched his daughter's eyes flick back and forth. They settled on him. She was holding her breath.

And then it happened. Green lines erupted on the computer screen like a heart monitor and the corresponding notes sang ominously in the distance. Will's eyes grew wide enough to match Janie's. The duo remained silent as the notes descended the ivory mound like a cascade of floating specters.

Janie said it best; when Will rubbed his neck with his remaining fingers, she pressed her nose against his sideburns and whispered in his ear, _"It sounds like a music box."_

* * *

If the past and future relationship of Sarah Huggins and William Carmel was distilled to three defining days, it would be the weekend of April 18, 1987.

Saturday. Sarah wore a dark-blue bustle-back dress with elbow-length sleeves and a bow in back. Her shoes were simple—nude, closed-toe heels—and she borrowed a pearl necklace from her sister. William wore jeans and a tan blazer over a blue v-neck.

That afternoon, the couple was married at the Grand Rapids courthouse with Allison Huggins as their only witness.

Easter Sunday. William was dunked three times into Lake Michigan by Pastor VanDuyn, then emerged shivering and smiling, a wingless phoenix with a forgiven past. He hugged Sarah on the beach with lumbering, wet arms. A handful of friends skipped their traditional Easter dinners to be present at the baptism; mostly young Brandywine couples who became acquainted with the Carmels through The Church of the Dunes. When Sarah invited the gathering to their home for finger-food and fellowship, she didn't expect anyone to accept. But they did—every one of them—and those with children brought them. With the impromptu potluck at the base of the hill, the Carmel family accidentally began a new tradition.

Monday. Sarah Carmel arrived home with a five-week-old black and brown puppy with the face of a Labrador and the coat of a German Shepherd. She wrapped the dog in a picnic blanket from the trunk of her car, then knocked on the screen door and beckoned her new husband to the porch. "Did you smoke pot today?" she asked.

"Quite a greeting," he said and pecked her cheek. "How was your improv class, beautiful?"

"Did you smoke pot today?" she asked again.

"Why would you ask me—"

"Did you smoke—"

"No!"

"Did you drink today?"

"No."

"Did you do any other illegal substances today?"

"No, Sarah!"

She tilted her head and grinned. "Do you remember what today is?" The bulge squirmed in her arms.

"April twenty is a counterculture holiday... but I promise I didn't—"

"Do you know what else today is?"

The corners of his eyes drooped.

"Think hard, Wild Bill."

He finally got the hint. He tried to stay cool, but the effort only forced more blood to his cheeks. "I don't know how you do this to me," he said. "I'm a thirty-two-year-old man, hard as a rock, and you come along and make me blush."

"It's because I'm your wife," she said. The blanket moved again.

"Whatcha got there?" he asked and peered over her arms.

"It's a present to celebrate a year of staying clean." The feisty gift pushed its face against the blanket. Sarah readjusted her hold while trying to keep a straight face. "You changed your whole life to be with me that day... and I wanted to show how much I appreciate you." She couldn't contain the animal anymore. It yipped, wiggled its tiny nose through the blanket, and cocked its head at William.

He plucked the puppy from under its shoulders and held it over his head. The dog—glad to be free of the blanket—scrambled its legs against Will's chest and licked his face. "She's gorgeous," he said.

"She's blind in her left eye. They had two male pups without any problems, but they weren't as cute and not as special."

"Your eye's just a little cloudy, that's all," he told the puppy, then looked to Sarah. "She's perfect."

By morning, the dog had a name and her name was Challo. William said he didn't know where the word came from, but thought it fit the little lady nicely.

Sarah wondered if Challo's transformation from pup to dog was reminiscent of Will's trip through puberty. The pudgy puppy fat was shed within six months, leaving behind a lean creature with pencil legs, broad boney shoulders, and a perfect blend of eagerness and mellow temperament.

Although she would never tell her husband, Sarah had an ulterior motive for buying a dog: Challo would be a temporary distraction from her longing for children. One year of sobriety may have been enough to marry William, but it wasn't enough to bring a child into the relationship. She blamed her trepidation on her desire to experience life as a couple while Challo relieved the tug in her heart.

In 1996, Sarah encouraged William to respond to a classified ad for a piano player at a new bar on Boulevard. The job wouldn't be a legitimate source of income, but they were still living comfortably off interest from the original land deal. _He can show off his talent to the world,_ she thought. _Maybe he can write and perform his own songs at the bar!_

_At the bar?_ With drinking and smoking and her husband at the center? He would be out until midnight... three to five days a week!

But Sarah didn't consider the venue's temptations until _after_ William got the job! With ten sober years behind them, she realized that she finally trusted her husband.

The new epiphany uncovered a repressed longing in Sarah's loins, and as William entertained the masses, her hipbones squirmed with possibility. She was thirty-two. She was ready. She discussed it with Will. He was ready too.

Less than a year later, Sarah and Challo stayed up late to greet William when he arrived home from work. She met him at the door, flicked off his fedora, then inched her hands beneath his shirt.

He lifted her up and Challo barked. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pressed her lips against his ear and whispered, _"We're pregnant,"_ though he already knew. With their bodies entwined, a budding life between them, and Challo's rhythmic panting at their knees, Sarah had never felt more complete.

* * *

Sarah was in the tub when she heard the music. _A Christmas song?_ She couldn't recall the title.

The phone rang. She ignored it.

The phone rang again so she pulled the drain, planted her hands on the porcelain rim of the tub, and hoisted herself out.

The music initially seemed like it was coming from downstairs, but as she stepped out of the bath and approached the bedroom window, the melody grew louder.

She wrapped her hair in a towel, then tilted her head and squeegeed her ears with the corner.

The landline rang a third time from its perch on her nightstand. Sarah left a trail of tiptoe prints across the carpet, grabbed the phone and said, "This is Sarah."

"Sarah, it's Morgan. I have a copy of the winter schedule in my hand, and the first of December clearly reads, 'No Show.' Am I missing something?"

"Nope. No show. I'm looking at the hill now, and the only lights are security lights."

"Well the music is disrupting my shows."

Sarah removed the towel from her head and covered her body, then unlatched the bedroom window and cracked it. The tune was clear. "O Holy Night." "I hear it too," she said. "I'll check with Will, but I'm sure it's not us."

"Please do. The noise is bad enough on the scheduled days."

"Goodbye Morgan," Sarah said and dropped the phone on the charger. She dried off with a second towel, wiggled on her underwear, then slipped her arms through a baby-blue robe and tied it off at the waist.

"William?" she called down the stairs. "Janie?"

Only the music replied.

She stepped into her pink slippers and walked downstairs.

A chill trickled through her limbs as she reached the last step and she thought it was the eerie music... but then she noticed the open front door. She double checked the security of her robe's bow-tie, then tiptoed through the living room and peeked outside.

Her eyes adjusted to the dark. More than twenty neighbors decorated her lawn like statues at a cemetery. They were staring at her.

Sarah panicked and nearly slammed the door... then realized her stupidity. They weren't looking _at_ her, they were looking _past_ her.

They were looking at the hill.

Sarah narrowed her eyes and saw her husband's gaping mouth and her daughter's pointing finger. Her concern for modesty fell to the porch with her hair-wrap, and the piano grew louder as she stepped from the porch to the snow.

She walked toward her family. Hyde emerged from his home and lumbered across the street at a similar pace. They all met in the middle.

"Mom! Do you hear it?" asked Janie.

"Unbelievable!" added William.

She looked at Hyde, hands tight in his jacket pockets, shoulders pressing his cheeks, and lingering wisps of breath rising and dissipating around an unmistakeable look of concern.

"Yo Will!" Dave Melbourn shouted form his bedroom window. "You messin' with your neighbors?"

"No sir!" William called back. "No idea what's going on!"

Janie snuggled into Sarah's robe and wrapped an arm around her back. "Aren't you cold?"

She _was_ cold. Her hair was freezing in dread-lock icicles. But she couldn't respond.

More neighbors ventured to their porches and crossed their arms in the chill. Sloan sat on Doctor Elfman's shoulders, her eyes lit with the magic of the unknown. Sharon and Tracy Cavenaugh stood beside a yellow backhoe in the slushy front yard of the future neighbors.

Cars arrived in droves. They parked on the edge of the woods and lined both sides of the road. A man in a yellow jacket called his parents and told them to come to his house to hear the music. "No," Sarah heard him say, "says he's got nothin' to do with it!"

Two figures scampered down the side of the hill. As they approached, Sarah recognized them as Jenny and Trent Johnson. They darted toward the group of spectators and shouted, "Mom! Dad! The speakers are all turned off!"

Matt Johnson gave his kids a high five. "How did you get inside?"

"The back gate was unlocked!"

Sarah wasn't cold anymore. Her face was feverish and her body was beginning to arouse its dormant adrenaline. "Where is the music coming from, Will?" she asked.

He looked down with that shit-eating smile plastered across his Santa Clause beard. "I don't know," he said. "It must be a miracle!"

Another lie. But that was okay, she already knew the whole story the moment the music rattled her eardrum: if God wasn't going to fill the stage with his visible presence, _William would do it for him._

So she left them there, the whole heard of believers with Janie stuck to her father like gum on a shoe. Hyde jogged a step behind.

Sarah stormed right through the Whitaker-Reid front door. Kayla was also in her robe, balancing a delicate mug between her fingers and leaning against the kitchen island like the top of a platinum trophy.

"He's lying to me," Sarah said. "Look outside. He's lying to the whole fucking world."

Hyde clamored inside before Kayla could respond. The three friends exchanged glances while "O Holy Night" cooled the room.

"Decaf?" Kay asked.

"Black," Sarah said.

Hyde led her to the couch and wrapped a Detroit Lions blanket around her back. Kayla handed her coffee and the mug warmed her hands. Hyde sat in his chair. Kayla sat at across the couch. No one made eye contact.

"Now," Kayla said, "what's wrong?"

Sarah spoke carefully, as if she had to consult a dictionary before every word. "I saw teeth," she said. "I saw teeth sticking out of the bandshell arch the morning they honored William at the church service."

"Teeth?" Hyde asked.

"Fangs. And I stood there and I couldn't move and I wanted to tell the minister to run but I couldn't. The choir was dancing in their red robes, lapping back and forth like a tongue. More teeth rose up from the foot-candles, but the choir had their eyes closed, clapping and singing... and then it started to move. The wings of The Stage began to collapse. Slowly—just a few inches at a time— _but I could see it, Kay_ and nobody noticed it but me. William was up there dancing and singing with no clue that he was about to be caught like a piece of food in the teeth of this monster. But I was frozen. My feet were frozen to the ground and those lips moved faster and the stage-lights quietly fell to the ground and the catwalk broke in half but it didn't make a sound. The tongue licked and lapped and twisted and the top fangs closed in on the bottom teeth until they were touching. I couldn't see the tongue anymore but I could see my husband's feet dancing between the jaws. As the top of the stage lowered, I saw them; two eyes mounted on top like on a frog. But the eyes weren't stone like the rest. They were alive. They were wet and they moved in plaster sockets. When the lips finally met, the eyes closed and the orchestra pit bobbed out like an Adam's apple and I knew it swallowed them whole. The eyes looked through the cheering crowd and found me. They found me and watched me and I swear the wings lifted and _it grinned_."

The music stopped. Despite the coffee and blanket, Sarah was shivering. She looked to Kayla. "It's always watching. Every time I tell a lie, every time William talks about his mission, every time I look across the street and see the lights on in your home... I feel it watching me."

Kayla nodded. "We tried to stop it. We did everything we could."

Sarah leaned forward. "Everything you could? That's bullshit, Kay. You could have stopped this a thousand times but you let it go."

"We did try. Hyde brought home all the same equipment—"

"Kayla..." Hyde interrupted. "No."

"Why does it matter now? It's not any worse than what we did before."

"What happened?" Sarah asked.

Kayla glared her husband into remission, then turned back to Sarah. "Hyde brought home the same equipment a couple weeks after the prank. The computer, the recording program, the microphone... and the speakers were still in the stables. So we did it again."

"What did you do?"

"We waited until Will was alone by his piano, and then I told him to stop building the theater with the same silly voice as before. I said the mission was a test of his faith, that he passed, and that he needed to stop. I said it ten times. Over and over I yelled. 'Stop production, William Carmel,' I said. 'Stop building the theater, William Carmel!"

"We watched him," Hyde said. "We assumed he heard it from the way he reacted. He ran out of the stables and tripped in the yard. Looked terrified. You came out and helped him up. Guess we were wrong."

"We tried to stop it," Kayla said. "I promise, Sarah. We tried to stop it."

* * *

Sarah stumbled into a silent night.

It was anger that propelled her slippered toes one step at a time through blackened slush from tire treads left by those who believed her husband's lie. It was anger that kept her blood warm on the trek between houses, despite the midnight chill and the ominous gaze of the theater's silhouette.

_She understood everything_. Twenty-five years ago, God was the foundation for William's change. Now, when Will's desire to create superseded his desire for faith, he set a trap for God. In the name of Faith and Creation, William built his stage and he demanded miracles. Then, if God ignored the bait and refused to show, Will would have a reason to doubt again. He would say "I told you so, Sarah! Twenty-five years ago I told you there was no God and now I have proof!" He would lose himself in that abyss... but Sarah wouldn't follow him this time.

She knew it wasn't fair to delve into the assumptions of where "God's silence" would drag her husband, but that's what the human brain does; it seeks out history to determine the future. What else was there?

Sarah held one bit of pessimism as absolute truth; one small world-view that her husband didn't share. In all of his cynicism and cut-and-dried views on society and the world, _William still believed that people could change_. He cited himself as an example.

There was a time—back when she still lived with her parents—when Sarah believed one could reverse their habits and addictions. But _life_ pointed out the naiveté in her romanticism; humanity was one massive case-study that proved _no one_ is capable of change. We're capable of _stopping_ , but not _quitting_. We live our lives in an ebb and flow of "stopping" until our biology or physiology is intrinsically altered. But when change is left to willpower alone, failure is imminent. Sarah's mother proved the point every day with her failed diets and merry-go-round of skinny promises. "I really mean it this time! I know it's unhealthy! I'm going to change!" Then two pounds, five pounds, ten pounds of success and she would snap, "One candy-bar isn't going to hurt, honey," and "quit" turned back to "stopped" until a heart-attack at sixty-two ended her urges by ending her life.

All Sarah needed was a single example to the contrary and she would be able to cast away the blight on her otherwise loving worldview. For years she thought her husband was the counter-example. But now she knew that William was born a liar, and he would die a liar.

And if Will's truth was temporary, then so was his sobriety. Twenty-four years of marriage couldn't change that.

Sarah sniffled her runny nose and recalled Kay's comparison of the madness to a contagion. _"The only way to escape it is to pass it to someone else."_

She wiped her nose on her bare arm, stepped to the porch, and kneed open the front door.

"Where's Janie?" She asked and removed her slippers, white with hardened beads of snow.

William sat on the piano stool and plucked away at the computer keyboard. "I told her she could watch a movie before bed. Were you catching up with Kay?"

"You lied about the music." She didn't wait for a reaction, but circumvented William's command station and walked to the kitchen.

"Honey, it was a joke!" He stood and followed, a caricature of old papa-redneck in waffled long underwear with a tomato-red nose warming itself behind a cartoon mustache. "It was a silly promotion for the Christmas show! Janie and I—"

"I don't want to hear about the ways you involved our daughter in your stupidity. You lied to me." She yanked a stockpot from the cupboard by the oven with a clang of falling pans.

"I didn't lie. Calm down. Quit throwing yourself around and talk to me."

She dropped the pan in the sink and turned the water to hot.

William caressed her shoulder.

"Do not touch me."

"It wasn't a lie. I was—"

"Hiding the truth?" She slammed off the tap, lifted the pot from the sink, and splashed water on the counter and across William's shirt. "Any other hidden truths?"

"What?"

"Do I need to remind you, Bill?" (Months of repressed dread grew like icicles—one drip at a time—on the troughs of Sarah's stomach. Now the icicles were melting and Sarah couldn't hold back the flood of hate.) "What about the night at the piano bar? I asked you to be discrete and it took you less than a day to go behind my back and tell the world. Then a contractor warns you that there's a fire hazard in your chorus room, and you ignore him! How about the fly system debacle and lawsuit? All because you didn't listen to an hour safety lecture! We have no money, William! No hope! And it's because of your hidden truths and outright lies!"

"Sarah! God will provide!"

"God will not provide!" She dropped the pot to the ground and plunged her foot in the steaming water. "He isn't there, William!" She thrust her arm out in the general direction of the hill. "He doesn't give a fuck about your theater!" She switched feet and winced at the sting.

"Where is this coming from?"

"I warned you before we started dating again. I warned you that one more lie would break us. It took twenty-five years for it to happen, but you finally did it."

"Did what? Lied about a stupid marketing gimmick? I couldn't tell you my plan outside! I was going to—"

"That's not all you lied about."

William pulled up a chair and sat with his legs straddling the backrest.

Sarah stepped from her foot bath, dumped the water down the drain, and started upstairs.

Will sighed and stood back up, then trailed behind. "Please, beautiful. What did I do?"

"You made me cry that night."

"What night?"

"I felt horrible for assuming the worst; for assuming you started lying again. But what was I supposed to think? You swore on our relationship."

"That was a year and a half ago! How did I lie?"

Sarah trampled down the hallway with no attempt to hide the argument from Janie. "You tripped into my arms that night. I was irrational and I apologized. Over and over I apologized and you _forgave me_ , Will. You let me say 'I'm sorry!' You knew I wasn't crazy, but you forgave me anyway." She opened the closet, jerked out the leather suitcase and tossed it to the bed. "Tell me William, how can a person let their wife—their 'other half'—believe she's crazy, just to cover up a stupid lie?"

"You're not leaving until you explain why you think I lied."

She opened her cupboards and tossed a pinwheel of clothes at the open bag. "Now I'm left to wonder what was going through your mind as I begged for forgiveness on this bed. You betrayed me, Bill. _This will fester inside me for years._ "

William snapped. He flipped shut the leather flap of her suitcase and threw it off the bed.

Sarah ignored the flamboyant gesture, grabbed a pair of jeans from the floor, and worked them up her legs beneath the frozen nighty. "I knew you were lying to me that day. _I knew it_ and I let you convince me otherwise. My intuition was ringing like a dinner bell but my love for you stifled the sound."

Before she could remove her nighty, he grabbed her shoulders and pinned her to the bedroom wall. The nightstand lamp threw demonic shadows across his face and his vocal cords purred beneath his words. "Sarah, what do you know about that night?"

She replied in a coarse, defeated whisper. "If you told me the truth... even days later... I would have forgiven you. We could have fought the madness _together_."

His teeth grated like a taut rope.

"I'm leaving you, Will."

He loosened his grip. His eyes softened. "Don't— Don't say that," he stammered. "You're the only thing keeping me... _I couldn't function without you_." He traced his sewn pink stubs across her cheek. "Tell me what you know and I'll tell you the truth. We'll start from there and we'll discuss this until it's resolved."

"If I told you what I know, it would kill you." Sarah planted both palms on his chest, pushed him away, and ducked his advance. She reached for a shirt but a fist twisted through her hair and yanked her back.

"Tell me, God damnit!" he barked and jerked her head forward.

She relaxed into his grip to ease the tightening pain. "If there was ever an appropriate time to blaspheme—"

"Tell me what the fuck is going on."

Her hands began to quiver. "Let me go or I'll call the police."

He released her hair.

Without breaking eye-contact, she snapped a shirt from the bed. "I told them I wouldn't tell you."

"Who?"

"I promised that if I left you, I would never give you the real reason." Somehow, Will's aggravation was making her stronger. "But now I _want_ to tell you, William. For slamming me against that wall. For pulling my hair. For all the lies and all this pain I want you to know the truth and I want to be the one to tell you." Sarah felt as if she was performing on stage for the first time in thirty years. She cocked her head and smiled with intentional condescension. "But I'm going to do the right thing. I'm going to keep my promise. I'm leaving here without a word and someday you'll discover the truth for yourself. Then you'll realize you betrayed the only person who would love you anyway."

The bedroom door exploded and ruined the impact of Sarah's words. Janie marched through the mess of clothes, hair dripping and dark, wearing a pink tee that hung to her knees. "Tell him the truth!" she screamed. "Tell Dad the truth!"

"Janie, we're leaving—"

"If you're not brave enough, Mother, I swear..."

Sarah couldn't break free from her daughter's glare. _What did she know?_

Janie shook her head. Her face was smooth and clean from the shower and her hair's delicate frame emphasized her cherub cheeks. "Why won't you tell him?"

She couldn't respond.

" _Look at him, Mom."_

William was gripping the window frame with steel knuckles as if the molding was the only thing keeping him from slugging her across the face.

Janie stepped to her father like a kitten approaching a tiger. "Hold out your hand," she said.

William kept his grasp on the trim and extended his claw.

Janie splayed her fingers to reveal a crushed piece of plastic, now instantly recognizable by everyone in the room. She offered the broken device to her father and he took it. "This is what they're hiding from you. I found it in the stables last summer."

Sarah turned away but Janie's words were unavoidable.

"It wasn't God who spoke to you, Dad. It was the neighbors."

* * *

The blizzard announced itself with soft patters on the window pane.

"How long did you know?" Will's voice trembled. His body was numb. "Sarah? How long... how long have you known?" His voice raised in pitch. "All this talk of lies? My lies are tearing us apart? _My lies_ , Sarah?" he huffed and his eyes twisted with his head as he gathered the implications and ramifications and complete understanding of his past stupidity. "Get out," he said quietly. Then he shouted, "Get out!" as the sickening embarrassment of his public prophecies pulled him to the carpet. "Get out, get out, get out of my home!" he yelled, screamed, then felt his blood drain from his head and he nearly fainted.

Sarah took advantage of his delusion and ran to Janie first. She fell to her knees and whispered a rush of pleas—not quietly enough to hide from Will—while he struggled to regain his composure. "There are loving people in the world," she said. "There are people who aren't cynical like your father; who can't justify their cynicism to a T. You don't want to become like him, sweetheart. He's dangerous."

"Not to me," Janie said and Will caught himself moaning like a wounded animal and forced himself to stop.

Every time his mind fought for optimism, another piece of the puzzle fell into place: _the_ _groundbreaking, the holy ground, his missing fingers, their life savings, three million dollars (Three. Million. Dollars.), the piano-bar speech, the letters to the editor... how how how could he be so fucking low? All of the rants, the preaching, the dance with the minister and lecturing Janie about miracles..._

And Jaxon. _Jaxon._

Jaxon Silverman who offered a way out.

Will could have accepted. _He should have accepted!_

The voices of the whispering women became louder, but Will no longer understood their language. Sarah was packing and crying? But Janie was firm and defiant.

He collapsed to the foot of the bed.

"Dad!" Janie cried.

"He'll be fine," Sarah said.

"Hand me the phone," Will said from his slump and Janie obeyed.

Jaxon was on speed dial. "Hello?" muttered the man, half asleep.

"I'll take it," Will said. "I'll take your offer, Jax. Buy my land and tear it to the ground."

"Will? Do you have any concept of time or etiquette?"

Sarah zipped her luggage and tossed it to the hall, then stormed to the bathroom in a ruckus of plastic thunks as she flung toiletries into plastic bags.

Janie sat on the bed. Her knee brushed Will's temple.

"Take it away," he said to Jax. "I want the money. I want the new house. Rip that stage down and haul it away!"

Janie's hand smoothed his hair.

Jaxon's voice was piercing. "Do you remember when we spoke on your hill? Do you remember when I told you about the other land deal? That wasn't a joke, Mr. Carmel. Silverman and Binder signed the paperwork a month ago and we're no longer in a position to purchase your land."

"Fine. Cut the offer in half and I'll tear the theater down myself. You don't understand..."

"Go to bed, Will. Don't call me again."

He cried; on the phone to Jaxon he looked like a pussy but he cried so the man could hear. "Is there anything..."

"William?" Jax said.

"Yeah?" he managed between sobs.

"Your association dues start in six months." Jaxon hung up the phone and Will dropped his head.

"Daddy?"

He squeezed Janie's ankle with his claw and used the leverage to stand.

Sarah was leaving and she was taking their daughter, but before Will knew it, he was crunching snow with bare feet and scaling his hill like Everest in long underwear and strides through snow as temperate as sand. The snow didn't just fall, it zipped in long horizontal lines with tails like white thread. The wind assured the flakes would never touch the ground, clinging instead to Will's beard and melting in the cracks of his cheek.

The blizzard thickened and billowed, cloaking the theater behind a spinning Dervish dress. At any moment, Will expected the faint orb of the bandshell to forgo its camouflage and appear before him, but it remained hidden.

What if he fought the blinding snow to the top of the hill, only to discover that the stage had never existed? That he had emerged at the waking-end of a nightmare like the tattered George Baily arriving home to a beautiful Christmas with his family and neighbors?

Will was not George Baily; _Will's_ angel brought him to hell and left him there.

As if he needed more proof that this wasn't a dream, he heard Sarah open the car door and turn the ignition. He blinked snow from his lashes and blocked wind from his eyes as the engine hummed and growled but didn't turn and he prayed that the cold had ruined the battery. But with a cough of visible monoxide, the engine revved to life and his hope was lost. The headlights illuminated two yellow cones of falling snow branching from the car to the stables and Sarah's dark figure cut between the beams as she stowed away their life in the trunk. Janie would be there too, packed and sealed and safe from her father's delusions.

The doors slammed for the last time. The headlights careened across the house and hill, then twisted around to illuminate the path that would lead them away.

Will watched the crimson taillights slide through Brandywine until the car vanished in the storm.

He turned back to his stage. The wind finally settled, and the theater's form appeared like a chameleon in comfortable surroundings. The dark mirage conjured memories of the experience in the shed. Was the ghost-like theater a real, capitol "V" _Vision?_ Or was it a small "v" as in "vision impaired?" How could those speakers trick him? How could a bundle of wires be mistaken for the voice of an angel? _Why would God let his most faithful servant believe such blaspheme?_

Through the back gate. Across the grass. Past the chairs. The corners of his lips grew saliva popsicles but he hardly noticed.

He reached the foot of his stage. He remembered that the theater hadn't been winterized. The curtain was wet with melted snow, though it still protected the wood floors. The pipes and rods were expanding and contracting, and the hatch—

The fraying sound of rope on metal interrupted Will's thought and the curtains parted with sopping bottoms dragging like slugs across the floor.

"Who's there?" he shouted. "This is private property!"

The spotlight popped to life with an electric thud and he spun around and visored his eyes as they adjusted to the harsh light. "Another trick, Hyde? You cock sucker? Leave me alone! Take your wife and leave me be!"

The music began. Not a piano plucking Christmas carols, but the mocking drone of an upbeat carnival accordion.

"I'll call the cops!" he said and backed toward the chairs. The foot-candles illuminated too, followed by the rainbow overheads. The light created a surreal arena against the blue-black night sky.

The wind picked up and rustled the perimeter trees at the hill's base. _The trees! They don't see it!_ he thought. _They're blind to this madness, waving their obsidian branches as if the nightmare on stage holds no power over them!_ Their ignorance underscored his fear.

The first puppet was Ray-Ray. She was life-sized, made of wood, and dropped and flopped from the catwalk to a pile of whittled limbs on the stage. Strings connected her extremities to an invisible puppeteer and as they pulled taut, she lifted to a realistic standing pose. Will rubbed his eyes and realized the puppet wasn't Ray-Ray at all, but Sarah dressed in pointe shoes and a pink leotard.

Her body was frozen. The strings didn't tug and the wind had no pull. The only movement came from her eyes. They weren't made of wood like the rest of her body; they were alive— _human—_ frightened and searching behind stiff lids and painted lashes.

The rest of the cast dropped all at once in a clamor of hollow wood and limp thread. Will blinked. _What the hell...?_ The strings yanked the new puppets to erect attention. Their eyes were trained on Will and begged for help. On stage-left, Hyde stood with flat, un-chiseled features and Kayla leaned against him with pipe-cleaner hair and a torn pink tutu. The folks in between were a diverse cast of characters from Will's life. There was Janie, Jaxon, piano-bar Marsh, Pauline Woodstock (with a triple-platinum trophy!), young Stanley in producer suit-and-tie, Chicago dealers, Michigan dealers, Mom, Sir, and more.

The line stood motionless, breathless, single-file and dead.

Suddenly, the accordion music clamored as if the musician struck all the keys at once. The figurines lifted their arms and Will laughed at the sight. Their bodies heaved and shook, though their stone expressions didn't change.

The adulterated visitors broke formation and bounced to the beat of "Do-Re-Mi" as Will stood tall before the stage, arms waving like a conductor as if he controlled the puppets.

Janie's doppelgänger was the first to stray from the ditty. She leapt across stage with open legs and a crystal landing, spun once in front of Miss Kayla and bowed. The Kayla puppet mimicked the move, but flew half as far and landed with a clank like a percussionist's woodblock and wept in exaggerated sobs on the floor. Pauline, the thickest doll of the bunch, arched over Kayla and slapped her knee in fits of laughter, then presented the fallen dancer with a bronze trophy. Will and the Janie doll joined in Pauline's laughter, then Janie bent her bolt-hinged knees and pushed off from the stage, using her strings to fly like a Peter Pan pulley system.

Two more characters surprised him from stage-right. First out was Challo with synthetic black fur. She had a separate string that wagged her tail and a white marble eye in the left socket. Will was delighted to see his dog!

The second surprise guest entered with a cartwheel and backflip. It was Ray-Ray! But she was garbed in Sarah's blue nighty with dyed brown hair and crayon-drawn freckles. She wobbled her hips in a stilted belly dance and the nightgown billowed and gave Will sporadic glimpses of pulpy, mismatched breasts.

Janie descended from her flight and landed gracefully beside Challo. She threw her arms around her furry friend's back and the dog licked her face with a felt tongue.

The theater was packed with action, but it wasn't over. With a cymbal crash, the extras dropped in. Twenty chorus girls with sticker smiles fell in line behind Ray-Ray's libidinous pantomime of Sarah. Upon closer inspection, Will recognized the dancing ladies as the nameless women he screwed before meeting his wife.

The Brandywine Neighbors fell behind Hyde and Kayla: Mrs. Danthers, Sean Umbers, Morgan Demfield, Marvin Gibson, Sherlock and Tracy Cavenaugh, the Rogers, the Bauers, the Johnsons, the Garlands and the Peltons, all dressed in matching beige Polos and black slacks.

Puppet-Hyde strayed from Puppet-Kayla and slipped in line with the chorus girls. They locked arms and he synchronized his kicks with theirs.

Jaxon spun across stage and finished the trick with a "ta-da" pose in the middle of the hoard. His head twisted three-hundred-and-sixty degrees as his charcoal eyes scanned the neighbors' menacing poses. It was Granola Bauer who made the first attack by grabbing the string on Jaxon's left foot wrapping it around his neck. The others cheered and joined the fray until Jaxon was tangled and hung in a cocoon of his own string. Will shivered with excitement when the neighbors jumped the Stanley doll, pulled him limb from limb, and used his arms and legs as bats for the Jaxon piñata.

When Janie tripped, the show unraveled. She fell over her own feet and landed face-first into the rear-end of Charlie Arson, Will's old Chicago dealer. The little man crouched to Janie's level, patted her head, and handed her a plastic baggie of crystal meth.

"No!" Will tried to scream, but his mouth was sealed.

The Sarah doll (dressed as Ray-Ray) and the Ray-Ray doll (dressed as Sarah) met center-stage and fondled each other's curves. Sarah ripped the nightgown from Ray-Ray's body and they pressed their wooden lips together.

The act became a directionless display of lewd nonsense and Will tried to scream again but his vocal chords were solid. He held his right hand in front of his face and inspected the hole drilled through his palm. A thread was looped through the eyelet and tied around his Ken doll fingers. He looked at his left hand too _but there wasn't a hole because it had no palm._ Will frantically patted his head _(it can't be!)_ and found more twine growing from his skull and he looked up, tugged his string, and saw the strings ascending past the clouds and over the moon. The cord for his left hand dangled freely and lashed with slow-motion ripples in the falling snow.

Panic struck Will's knotted heart and he tried to flail but only his left arm moved. His feet lifted and dropped, pulling him one step at a time toward the orgy on stage. He thrusted and bucked his untethered hand in a desperate attempt to escape, but the flailing arm couldn't free the others.

Against his will, the middle string pulled William's head back and he saw that his strings were not alone in the sky; hundreds of strands rose, five at a time, from the heads, hands and feet of the stage performers, through the theater's roof, following his own cords to the heavens.

The William doll was finally forced to climb on stage. When the wooden creatures saw him, they attacked. He tried to shut his eyes as the tangled parade of marionettes consumed him, but his lids wouldn't budge. He was dismantled and decapitated and his head was hoisted from its thread. When it stopped spinning, his eyes were fixed on one image: the Brandywine subdivision with strings— _thousands of moonlit strings_ —ascending through the roofs of the houses, motionless despite the wind, as the marionette-residents slept peacefully in their beds.

* * *

Will awoke beside the wet curtain on the floor of the unlit stage. His daughter sat beside him with his boots and jacket in her arms.

"Put these on, Dad," Janie said. "We're going home."

**EIGHT - The Rise Of a Listening God**

Billy Carmel was a know-it-all teenager when he made the bet with his mother.

"It's indescribable," she said.

"Nothing is indescribable, Ma. Words exist for every aspect of life. You just need to know how to use them."

"You're a good writer, Billy-darling, but when you experience the birth of your first child—and believe your mama, you will someday—you won't have the words to tell about it."

"Betcha five dollars."

"You have five dollars to lose?"

"I will by the time I have kids."

"Why don't we make it ten?"

A handshake and nod sealed the deal.

Fifteen years after the death of his mother, William Carmel squeezed his wife's hand in the maternity ward of Butterworth Hospital and witnessed the birth of their daughter. Janie came into his world clear and bright and perfect, and that night—as Sarah hummed lullabies in the pink nursery with open windows sucking out the paint fumes—Will wrote his mother's name on a ten dollar bill and burned it.

When Janie turned five, Challo turned fifteen. It was a phenomenal age for a mixed breed, but she maintained her daily routine as if she was three.

"Daddy, what's wrong with Challo?" Janie's bottom lip stuck out and she held out a glop of slime on her fingertip.

Will inspected Challo's eye. It was Glaucoma. The technical term for the liquid was "Aqueous Humor," and until recently, it was an essential part of the dog's sight.

A visit to the veterinarian confirmed Will's diagnosis. She explained that the liquid was causing pressure buildup in the dog's eye. Meds and surgery would quell the inflammation, but nothing could prevent the eventual loss of vision.

"Fifteen is an extraordinary age for a dog," said the vet.

"I guess I have an extraordinary family," Will replied.

William paid for surgery. He bought the medicine and eye drops. He stuck to a strict daily routine to delay the inevitable blindness. By holding Challo's jowls and lifting her head, Will could look into her eye and still feel her gaze. He held her there for several minutes at a time, cooing and scratching her ear; never breaking precious contact with those foggy orbs.

The cloud thickened daily until Will lifted Challo's and her gaze fell to his shoulder. "Hey, Chall! Look at me! Up here!" The dog lunged forward and lapped his stubble. Will scrunched his face and rubbed her neck. "That's a good girl, Chall! What a good girl." He pulled back, looked in her good eye, and watched it drift away. "Aw, Chall..." He thumped her ribs. He brushed her belly. He exhaled a stream of warm air, nodded to himself, and said, "Okay, pup, let's get to work."

Will and Janie made it their mission to smooth Challo's transition to her new way of life. They established a "home base" beneath the kitchen counter with food and water bowls on a rubber mat to help Chall orient herself around meals. When Sarah accidentally placed the water on the left, Will lectured her about the importance of consistency when living with a blind dog.

William didn't mind letting Challo roam free while the family was home, but he didn't trust her outside when they were away. He hated the thought of resurrecting the twelve-by-twelve chain-link pen from the stables, but new houses were approaching rapidly and he worried about heavier, closer, and unfamiliar traffic.

For Will, problems spurred invention. He took Janie to the stable workshop, hoisted her to the workbench, and answered every question as quickly as the little inquisitor could asked them.

"What's the tennis ball for?"

"It's for Challo."

"Why?"

"Because she likes tennis balls."

"Why?"

"Because she can chase them and they feel good on her teeth."

"Whad are you usin' the knife for?"

"To cut a hole in the ball."

"Why?"

"To put a bell inside."

"Why?"

"So Challo can hear it when it bounces."

"Because she's blind?"

"Because she's blind."

"Do you love Challo, Daddy?"

"Very much."

"Me too." Janie plucked the bell and jangled it, then set it back in its place beside the tools. "That's a pretty good idea you had."

Will smirked and made the incision.

Janie dangled her legs and watched her father's handiwork. When Will squeezed the new hole and dropped the bell inside, Janie piped up. "I bet Challo can bite that ball right open and eat that bell!"

Will looked at his daughter. "Damn little lady, you're a good thinker." Twice around with duct-tape and the problem was solved; the choking hazard was locked safely inside.

During the years of baby-Janie, Challo, and nights at the piano bar, Will came to terms with his dwindling means of expression. There were spurts of creativity when he would dig through old notes, write a new melody, or start a screenplay, but with a daughter, wife and dog, "this-or-that" always arose and hampered his motivation.

At forty-seven years old, Will knew his aspirations belonged in the pipe. But with the support of three beautiful ladies, he was beginning to accept his gentler life.

* * *

April

Will didn't buy the drink, he stumbled on it. He was in the kitchen scavenging the pantry for breakfast or lunch (what time was it?) when he discovered the bottle of Kahlúa behind two bags of flour and a swarm of fruit-flies.

_Janie's won't be home from school until three._ He pinched the shot glass and rolled the base around the brown linoleum of the kitchen counter. If it wasn't for Janie, there would be no debate.

A shot of coffee liqueur would have been a joke thirty years ago. But it wasn't the name or proof that mattered today; it was the intent. The shot glass could've held champagne, hard lemonade... even mouthwash. It didn't matter because at this moment in Will's life, alcohol of any strength was the equivalent of every substance he had ever abused. The drink was a symbol; like an AA token but a hundred times more potent. The silly shot of syrup was worth nearly thirty years of his life.

Three months since his wife's departure and Will spent it lost in the same sweaty sheets. Did he want a drink then? Of course he did. Did he dream about a rail of dust or a drag from a cigarette? Absolutely. Did he break his sobriety? No. But like depressives, he resisted only because he was too despondent to give a shit. Now, since he was finally alert enough to shower and watch movies, swallowing a shot of Kahlúa didn't seem so hard.

But the glass was still full. _His thirty-year streak was still unbroken._

But Sarah was gone. And his life's greatest endeavor—which began as a hackneyed catchphrase—ended as a punchline to a shitty joke. If there was ever a time to resurrect old habits, it was now.

As he lifted and dropped the glass to his lips, Will pictured those old cartoons with the angel and demon on the hero's shoulders. Ha! How simplistic! How grand life would be if the forces of addiction were so evenly matched! But cartoon spiritual warfare was bullshit. Will's angel, for example, was a ninety-year-old stoner chick with severe focus issues. As Will faced his biggest addiction-related crisis in nearly thirty years, the old hag shuffled around his shoulder, smoked a bowl, coughed, and—just as she leaned into his ear to whisper her divine insight—farted and forgot what to say.

The demon, on the other hand, was popping speed and ecstasy and rattling off the million ways that alcohol could solve his problems and the _billion_ ways that Will loathed his life. He was a cynical bugger with the ability to transform painful memories into hateful memories that could drag Will to a place where "one drink" was an acceptable option. The demon was so proficient at his job that he merely needed to suggest reasons for depression and Will's misanthropic brain would handle the rest.

Sarah was in Grand Rapids with her sister Alli and brother-in-law Rick. Alli and Rick had three boys, Rain, Harrison, and something that starts with a "J." Will didn't remember their ages, but their family Christmas photo (received via snail-mail the day before Sarah departed) indicated they were well into their awkward years. Slick-Rick liked easy money and Will wished the man had greasy hair so he would perfectly fit the stereotype. With his arm around Will's shoulder and "Can I get you a drink? I have an opportunity I'd like to _blah blah blah_ ," the man's bark was as bad as his sales record. Back when Will did his best to respect his brother-in-law and his business decision to drag Alli and the boys to an alpaca farm in Virginia, he at least pretended to listen to the spiels. But after a particularly offensive pitch in which Slick-Rick asked for a small investment (with big payoff!), Will finally told the douche that he had more respect for hookers than salesmen ("at least hookers blow you before they screw you") and asked Sarah to never visit Alli again. It was a joke, of course, but the sisters proceeded to drift apart, partly because of the move to the Virginia farm, partly because they had little in common.

Alli and Slick-Rick moved back to Grand Rapids when the alpaca business failed ("I just lost interest," Rick said. "If I would have put in the work, it woulda paid off big!") and now they were Sarah's only acquaintances outside of Brandywine.

Sarah called Janie's cell hourly since the moment she left her daughter in the care of a psycho, but it took her six days to call the psycho himself.

"Thank God, Sarah!" Will's spirit lifted at the sound of her "hello" and he sat up in bed. "We need to talk, honey—"

"If you say another word, I'm hanging up."

Tears burned the corners of his eyes.

Sarah cried too. The phone rustled as she covered the receiver but he could still hear the audible pain in her gasp. Her breathing quickened as she pulled herself together. "I left Janie with you as a sign of my mercy and understanding. She's my sacrifice because I know you're in a dark place and she says she'll do anything to make you better. I don't trust you, William. When I look back on our life now, I don't think I ever did. But I trust my daughter to make good decisions and you need to understand that she is not in your care. I'm going to see her on weekends during the separation. After the divorce, she'll live with me. I'll pick her up from school on Fridays and I'll drop her off on Mondays. If I ever pull up to that school and see your truck watching me from afar, I'm taking my daughter back now instead of later. We both know I have a flawless case for the best interest of our child. If I tell them everything—and I will if I need to—the court won't blink before ripping her out of Brandywine and giving me legal custody. I don't want to do that to her, but if I sense any hint of the Billy Carmel history creeping back into your life, my lawyer'll have my daughter out of Brandywine before you can say, 'the voices made me do it.' Do you understand?"

Six sleepless days planning a heartfelt apology... and she crushed him with a monologue. "I understand," he said.

Every time the doorbell rang, Will mustered the energy to peer out the guest-room window. It was always Hyde. William stopped initiating porch-days with the man who ruined his life, but whether it was out of pity or shame, Hyde still stopped by twice a month and ding-donged the bell. Will ignored the impositions until a week ago, then opened the door and spoke with his buddy on the porch. He smiled and nodded and never let on to his knowledge of the actual truth. He played off Sarah's departure and separation as a total mystery, while secretly damning every encouraging word the man uttered. When the temptation to strangle Hyde exceeded his ability to maintain a happy face, Will excused himself, waited until the man was out of earshot, and flipped the dining room table.

Other than Hyde, the doorbell only rang once. It was a Thursday afternoon in mid March and Janie answered it despite Will's objection. He eavesdropped on the conversation from his usual lookout behind teal and brown paisley curtains. The visitors were the new neighbors; the very people whom Will was contractually obligated to please by altering the aesthetic appeal of his home. Their names were Clint and Travis. They were gay.

Will watched his new neighbors prance the twenty steps from his front door to theirs. When they were back home and he was back in bed, Janie brought a box of gift-wrapped Godiva chocolates to his cavern and asked if she could keep the peach-scented soap and pink loofa for her shower.

The shoulder demon had little to say about Janie. Every weekday night for the last three months, she tucked the sheets around her father and crawled on the comforter to talk to him, even if he didn't talk back. She told him about lessons at Kayla's studio and how she was choreographing dances for the younger students because she was better than Kay. She asked him if he would help her with new dance ideas, but he refused. She was perfectly capable on her own.

Janie performed for him. She tore through her costume chest for the perfect outfits, plugged her phone into a boombox, and cleared a stage on the bedroom floor. But Will watched his daughter with fain enthusiasm, thanked her for the thought, and dismissed her from his room.

On a late January night as snowdrifts accumulated against the doors and the news predicted citywide school closings, Janie stayed on his bed and rubbed the groove of his missing fingers.

Their evening routine ended with a simple, "Goodnight Dad." Sometimes Will responded, sometimes he grunted and rolled over.

Janie put herself to bed every night, but not before talking to her mother for five minutes and to her boyfriend for thirty. Will couldn't make out words from the master bedroom, but on windless nights he could hear the tone in her voice. Sometimes she laughed. Often she cried.

There were other sporadic acquaintances that still cared enough to check in, though Will never answer their calls. They were as callow as he was before learning the truth. William "The other Will" Rogers mailed a pamphlet outlining Will's rights as a father. Mrs. Danthers, the sweet old woman from Brandywine's third tier, sent a colorful pamphlet about "limb loss." It was a kind gesture, but it made Will throw up a little in his mouth: _"We believe in the empowerment of people with limb loss. We believe that just because you lost a limb (or limbs) does not make you any less valuable to society."_ Were they serious? Did the writer of this sentiment really believe that a quadruple amputee was just as valuable to society? Ha! Sure, they were equal human beings with equal civil rights, but how were they _"_ equally valuable to society?" All the political correctness in the world couldn't trump the fact that ten fingers were better than seven. _How pandering._

The demon on Will's shoulder only needed to whisper a single word to drag him into the abyss: _"theater."_ That word conjured images of a rotting palace _so resembling hell_ that the shoulder demon probably made his home in its underbelly.

The Christmas show was cancelled, not because Will made an official announcement, but because he ignored thirty messages from Pastor VanDuyn. By December twenty, the minister gave up efforts to reach him.

How could Will face those calls? How could he explain to his minister that his resent doubt stemmed from the fact that "God's Stage" was nothing but a mortal ruse, and he was the dumb buffoon who gobbled up the joke and spit it in everyone's face?

In early March, Janie insisted on a theater reconnaissance mission. Will told her to stay away, but she usurped his command and scouted the condition of the enemy base.

"I don't want to hear about it," he said when she returned.

"The curtain's moldy."

He pulled the covers over his head and sprinkled nacho crumbs on his bare shoulder.

"Doesn't mold spread?" she asked.

"Leave me alone."

"I'm calling a mold guy. I'll let you know what he says."

He grunted.

"Oh, and the brick walls in the basement are tagged."

"Tagged?"

"Spray painted. Kids at school say it's a good place to send people on dares. Probably explains the tags."

Another grunt.

"Our speakers are still there. I can see them but I can't reach them without help."

"Then leave 'em."

She plopped on the side of the bed and pulled the covers off his face. "It's already March. Maybe you don't have any fancy concerts or plays booked, but dance competitions start in a month and a half. I may be a kid, but isn't that how this family makes money? Maybe you should get off your ass and fix up your investment."

"Out," he said and jerked the sheets from her hand.

Janie sighed, scowled, and left her father alone.

Two days after her mission, she brought it up again. "The mold guy just left. He said the curtain had to be taken down or the mold would spread to the wood. I gave them permission to do what they needed, and they did. I'm sorry Dad, I know you liked the curtain."

A week later, the theater made the local news when a seventeen-year-old girl reported being raped by a classmate in the chorus room. The victim claimed she was sent to the theater on a dare to vandalize the exterior walls when the suspect met her at the stage with the intent of having sex. After the incident, the girl discovered that her attacker was in cahoots with the group who proposed the dare, and she came forward to the police to report the crime.

The highly publicized incident was not treated lightly, but Will couldn't find the motivation to care. Sherlock requested a sit-down at the station, but Will ignored the invite and they handled the formalities over answering machines.

BEEP. _"I know we don't hang out much, Will, and I know our daughters don't get along, but I consider you a good neighbor. Even outside the dance competitions, my family and I have enjoyed several shows at your theater and we supported your vision from the beginning. I've heard the gossip and—though I take it with a grain of salt—I know you're in a difficult place. When you get out of your funk, I want you to give me a call to discuss ways we can prevent crime at your beautiful facility. We have programs in place that can assist small business owners like yourself. And if there's anything I can do for you on a personal level, I live just down the street. You're a staple of our community Will, and we're all praying for you to pull through this."_ BEEP.

Sherlock's words _did_ pull Will out of his "funk," but only because they sparked an intense desire to watch the Dirty Hairy series. The only TV with a DVD player was in the living room, so Will had to make the long trek downstairs.

Now he stood—navy blazer with no shirt, cola-stained mustache, crumb-riddled beard—hunched at the counter like a midmorning hangover, debating his bitty cup of spiked joe.

The demon won.

Will lifted the glass and pressed it to his lips. The liquor trembled a stache-hair away from his tongue... and the pot-head angel finally remembered what to say. With both hands she opened his ear-hole and whispered the words between fits of high-pitched giggles like a witch stirring her cauldron, _"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams,"_ she said. _"Live the life you imagined!"_

How clever! How unbelievably clever of that forsaken angel! All the demon's ramblings, but it was _she_ who provided the final straw! William turned his head to acknowledge her sick sense of humor, _but she wasn't there_ ; only the dark-blue shoulder of his blazer.

There was no angel... _there was no demon_. She whispered that phrase that had haunted him for months, but this time... _Will recognized his own insanity_. The voice wasn't divine! _The voice came from within_.

He was in control.

The foyer door opened and slammed and Will lost his epiphany. _Janie. Shit!_

She entered the kitchen. "Dad?" she asked and finagled her backpack straps and dropped it to the floor.

"Your home early," he said and covered the liquor with his fingers.

"No dance on Tuesdays..." Her eyes fell to the shot glass. "What's that?"

"Kahlúa. Your mom uses it for baking."

"Did you drink any?"

"Not yet."

"Dump it out."

"It'll make me—"

"Dump it now or Mom will take me back."

"Mom doesn't need to know."

"You think more lies'll get her to love you again? I know about your addiction. Dump it out. Now."

"That was thirty years ago. I don't have addictions anymore."

"Yeah? What about your depression? You always told me depressed people are addicted to feeling sorry for themselves, right?" Janie lunged for the glass but Will snatched it away and held it above his head. "Do you even want her back?" she yelled. "You need her, Dad!"

"I know."

"We both do!"

"I know!"

"Then snap out of this!"

"You don't understand..."

"I do understand! I know why Mom's mad at you. I know we're gonna get sued if you don't remodel the house by next month. You say you want her back but you lay in bed feeling sorry for yourself. And now you're gonna be a fucking drunk again?" Janie stared him down like a pissed-off puppy.

Will didn't budge. He held the glass in the air and glared back.

Janie gave up first. She exhaled hard, rolled her eyes, and turned away. "I can't believe I'm doing this."

"Doing what?"

She spoke more to herself than Will. "I can't believe I'm doing this, but it'll probably help."

"What are you—"

"I know something bad about our neighbors."

"Who?"

"It shouldn't make you feel better; it shouldn't snap you out of this... but I know it will."

"I'm sure I already know about it."

"You don't."

"What is it?"

"Dump the drink down the drain..."

"Janie—"

"...and call a builder for the remodel."

"I'll talk to Jaxon and get an extension on the contract."

"Then you won't know what I know."

"I'll hear it from someone else eventually."

"Did I say it was town gossip? It's not. I found it out for myself. I'm the only person who knows."

"Childish tactics don't work on adults."

"Fine. Drink your damn beer..." Janie muttered the rest just loudly enough to catch her father's ear. _"...but it's about the jerks who tricked you."_

He set the drink on the counter. "Hyde and Kayla?"

Janie smirked and walked to her backpack. She fished around inside, removed a folded piece of paper, and gave it to Will. "It's a list of builders that I found online. Mom says you got a loan to fix the house, now I'd like you to use it."

Will didn't consider himself a petty man, but if Janie said she had news, he probably needed to hear it. Without another objection, he poured the Kahlúa down the drain and flushed it away with the hose.

"The bottle too," she said.

He twisted the plastic lid from the naked man's brown head and listened to the "glup glup glup" as the liquor spiraled away.

Janie waited until every drop was gone, then gave him her cell.

Within ten minutes, Will had a date for an inspection.

"Happy?" he asked.

"Very," she said.

"So?"

"You really want to know?"

"I really want to know."

"If I tell you, it could make things worse."

"We had a deal."

"I'm just sayin'—"

Will scooped up his daughter, dropped her butt on the counter, and looked her right in the eyes. _"Tell me,"_ he growled.

Janie smirked. "Mr. Whitaker is having an affair."

* * *

"Is it a virus?"

"No, Dad."

"Can I do this to anybody?"

"Only people on your network."

"Hyde is on my network?"

"Technically, we're on his."

"How is that possible?"

"He likes fancy electronics. His router's huge."

"How do you know how to do this?"

"School. Joe Soulsby parked his car outside the computer lab and used his laptop to mess with people during exams. He got expelled."

"It can't be that easy. Don't we need a password?"

"'Giggles0501.' We had a pizza party for dance last month. Kayla gave the kids the router password for their laptops."

"You have everything figured out, don't you?"

"I pay attention. Part of being an INTJ."

"IN what?"

"Forget it."

"How do you know it's true?"

"Huh?"

"How do you know this stuff about Hyde?"

"Remember when we had the snow day?"

"No."

"We had a snow day at the end of February. The roads were so bad that even Mr. Whitaker couldn't get to work, but by the time we had dance, they plowed. Kayla said she'd give me a ride, so I walk over to their driveway and the car's unlocked so I get in. Then Mr. Whitaker walks out lookin' all sketchy. He takes out his cellphone and makes a call. He doesn't see me in the car, so I roll down my window while he lights his cigarette and I can hear him perfectly even though he's tryin' to be quiet. He says words like, 'baby girl,' and 'sexy,' and 'I love you, sweetie,' then he tells her he'll be online all night."

"That's why you think we'll see something tonight."

"When Kayla finally walks out he changes his voice like it's a business call. She gets in the car, tells me to roll up the window because it's freezing cold so I do and Mr. Whitaker waves goodbye."

"Un—"

"—believable. I know."

"So now what?"

"The hard part. Are you sure you're okay with sending your thirteen-year-old daughter to do your dirty work?"

"Don't you like our little adventures?"

"Mom walked out after our last 'little adventure.'"

"We're fixing that, remember?"

"Pay attention because I'm not explaining this again."

"Teach me, young master."

"You'll be able to see everything on Hyde's screen, just like it's your own computer. If you wanted to, you could control his screen; that's what the program is really made for. After tonight, don't move the mouse! If you move the mouse or hit a key while he's at his computer, he'll see it on his screen too. To connect, click the icon in the top right corner and a big green 'connect' button'll pop up. To get out of screen-sharing mode and back to your computer, don't try to click the icon; just push 'escape' on your keyboard. It's the button on the top left."

"And he won't be able to tell when I'm connected?"

"Normally, he'd be able to. This feature comes on most computers now, and of course it tells you when somebody's trying to connect. But that's why I have to download the hack on his computer. That way, when you try to connect, it won't ask his permission. Also, the icon that tells him another computer is connected... that'll be gone."
"So what now then?"

"I'll go to their house and download the hack to their computer. When I give you the secret signal—"

"What's the secret signal?"

"I'll flash his desk lamp twice."

"Then what?"

"When I give you the secret signal, you push connect like I showed you. When it's connected, move the mouse around so I can make sure you're controlling his screen. Then as soon as I give the signal again, shut it off."

"By pushing 'escape.'"

"Right."

"And after tonight, it'll just... work?"

"After I install the hack, you'll be able to see his screen whenever you want... unless he gets a new computer, of course."

"You're sure that you're okay with this?"

Janie didn't respond.

"Honey?"

"I'm mad at him too, you know..."

Will squeezed her shoulder. "Well, Janie Carmel... I'm glad I have you on my side."

* * *

It was Thursday, not Sunday, but Kayla wanted to cook with her husband anyway. The lamb chops in the freezer would make a good excuse for the break in routine, so she told Hyde that cooking night came early this week and convinced him to grab a sprig of thyme from the market on the way home. The camaraderie she felt while cooking was the closest feeling she had to making love. (Kayla knew it was unhealthy to fantasize over elaborate scenarios, but somewhere in the back of her mind lived the hope that she could make a dinner _so tasty_ that it would make her husband want her again.)

She scanned the green vinyl tabletop for the other half of the dolphin's eye. The rest of his body was assembled, but his face—the easy part with all the detail—was giving her trouble. The box lid with the complete image sat against the metal leg of the card table. She rarely consulted the box for help. But the arrangement of the dolphin's face didn't make sense! O _ne peek won't hurt,_ she thought and picked up the lid.

_No!_ her conscience screamed. _That's cheating!_

She fought the urge and won, then flung the cardboard lid across the room.

"Watch it," Hyde said from the recliner; his first words in an hour.

"Sorry, sweetie-pie," she said.

Hyde bowed his head. For a split second she thought he was praying. But it was just another text on that stupid phone. He typed the message, closed the phone, laid it on his chest and refocused on the ball game.

Kayla observed her husband's thumb rubbing sweat beads from his third beer. Hyde's habits bothered her more each day, but after what happened to Will and Sarah, she made a conscious decision to loosen the reigns on her own hubby while trying to appreciate his positive traits.

Business was stressful anyway. If Hyde wanted a drink or two to calm down after work, she was okay with it. The second store was booming in its thirteenth month which meant less time with Hydey, but more financial wiggle room.

Kayla found the dolphin's eye. "Ah-ha!" she exclaimed.

Someone pounded at the front door.

"Who's that?" Hyde asked.

"I don't know, silly. Go look."

"Honey, I'm watchin' the game."

"Honey, it's recorded. Push pause."

"Honey, you're doing a puzzle."

Ding dong.

Kayla held her ground. Hyde sighed and whacked down the recliner's footrest.

Janie stepped in before Hyde could open the door. "Can I check my email on your laptop, Mr. Whitaker? Dad's internet is out again."

"Come right in," Hyde joked; Janie was already opening the French doors to the study.

"Hey there, Janie," Kayla said.

"Hey Kay. I'll just be a sec."

"Chase again?"

"Who else?"

Hyde followed Janie in the study. Kayla could still hear them.

"I've been telling your dad to get a new router," he said. "You should see mine; best router money can buy."

"I'm a girl, Mr. Whitaker. I don't understand technology."

"Wait!" Hyde said. "Hold on."

Kayla looked up from her puzzle and saw her hubby closing his own programs so Janie could work.

"Don't click around too much," he said. "Got a lotta work stuff open."

"Thanks," Janie said. "I'll take it from here."

Hyde sauntered back to the living room. "Should I start the chops?"

"When she leaves," Kayla whispered. "We'll have a fun night together."

He shrugged and plopped back in his seat.

"How's Dad doing?" Kayla asked loud enough for Janie to hear.

"Misses Mom," she replied.

Kayla wasn't sure how to respond and regretted asking the question.

Will and Sarah were old news. Kayla prayed for forgiveness after the Christmas craziness settled down. Now she was free of the burden. Will and Janie didn't know the truth anyway. When Hyde finally coaxed him out to the porch, Will said that Sarah never explained her reasons for the separation.

Besides, if Will knew the truth, Kayla wouldn't be alive.

There was a time when she feared the eye of the stage. She let the lies consume her. But something changed on the evening of Will's "O Holy Night" gag. The stage spoke to her. It beckoned her to find strength in its walls and reassurance in her happy memories of _dance_. In a way, the stage was keeping her sane.

Sarah rarely kept in touch. Kay heard more through Janie than her best friend.

"Shit!" Janie said from the study.

"Watch your language, Miss Janie."

"We're not in your studio, Kay."

"Watch your attitude in my home, Miss Janie."

"Yes, Miss Kayla."

"I'm trying to watch baseball, Miss Kayla," added Hyde.

Janie flicked the desk lamp on. Then off. Then back on.

"Everything okay?" Kayla asked.

_Then back off._ "Just playing with your neat lamp."

"Only twenty bucks," Hyde said. "I'll sell you one for fifteen."

Janie ignored him. Kayla didn't blame her.

Although she wanted Hyde to break all contact with Will, part of her understood his longing. He had dozens of friends back in the city, but got off to a bad start in Brandywine. She had a studio and dancers and dancers' moms for company. Hyde had his employees... and Will. She tried to tell him that rekindling a friendship based on life-destroying lies was a bad idea, but decided to lay off when she sensed a part of him needed the companionship.

The study light turned on again; then off and on and off.

"Janie?" Kayla said but the girl was already walking into the living room.

"All done. Thanks."

"Anytime, little lady," Hyde said. "Tell your pops to invite his old friend for a porch date."

"Dad needs his space," Janie said.

"We're cooking pork-chops in a bit," Kay said, knowing Janie would refuse. "We can send a couple your way when they're finished."

"We're all good, but thanks." Janie slipped out the front door.

"Hey!" Kayla shouted, and Janie's head popped back in. "Thirty minutes early tomorrow. Noah needs help with her 'Cabaret' choreography."

"Noah always needs help with choreography," Janie said. "Don't get your panties in a bunch."

"Goodnight, silly goose."

"Night," she said and closed the door.

Kayla remained seated, but lifted her head to watch the girl cross the street. "Pork chops?" she asked Hyde.

"Yeah," he said. "Sounds good."

* * *

"Damnit."

"What happened?"

"The laptop gave me an error, but I think we're okay." Janie barreled inside, kicked off her shoes, and stopped suddenly to reorient herself.

"I moved the piano so the computer desk could go by the window."

"So we can watch him. Nice." She dropped on the piano bench and the computer monitor illuminated her face in the dark room. "You didn't try to connect again, did you?"

"I only did what you told me to do. What was the error?"

"I dunno. It just said 'ERROR' in all caps, then a bunch of numbers."

"I saw it too. Have you ever seen it before?"

"How often do you think I do this? It popped up right when you connected. I pushed 'cancel' and it went away. Other than that, I it saw when you moved the mouse and I made sure he won't be able to tell when we're connected. We. Are. Golden."

"Will the error pop up every time I try to connect?"

"I don't know. It might."

"But—"

"Just be careful. Don't spy too often, just in case."

Will hovered over his daughter with his hands on his hips.

She glanced up. Her eyes glimmered like Sarah's. "Should we try it?" she asked.

"Nope. Get ready for bed."

"You'll do it without me!"

"Look," Will pulled back the curtain. "He's not even in his office. They're cooking."

Janie stood from the bench. "Fine."

He took her place. "Take a shower, brush your teeth, do... whatever it is you do at night."

"I think I can handle it, but thanks for trying to be a parent."

"Get outta here." Will whipped out his arm and tickled her side.

Janie laughed and squirmed. "I'll hurry!" she said and ran with bounding leaps up the stairs.

Will leaned to his left and peered out the window. Hyde's office was a hexagonal appendage, hanging off the living room with a row of six-foot-tall windows with wood grilles between double panes of glass. The room was like a cockpit to a sci-fi spaceship; Hyde could probably control the whole house from that desk.

Will slid the chalky grit of his teeth together. _You told me you'd go to marriage counseling. You said you'd tell your wife. You said you'd wait a year. Let's see how well you kept your promises._

Will's stomach turned. He was hungry for the first time in months.

Janie was right. This _was_ motivating.

He found a bag of microwave-popcorn in the kitchen and nuked it for three. No butter, so he doused the snack in vegetable oil and dumped it in a plastic bowl.

He paced the kitchen, bowl in hand, waiting for his daughter to finish her routine and for his friend to start his.

Will could hear Janie's distant chatter as she tried to get her mother off the phone. Sarah was so certain that he would lose faith when he discovered the truth about the stage. When he was honest with himself, maybe she was right. Maybe there wasn't a God... After three months of deliberation while swaddled in bedsheets, Will became certain of one absolute truth: if there was a God in Heaven who allowed the year's tragedy to unfold _in his name_...

...then William Carmel would make a better God.

Will was kind. He was merciful. He was vengeful. And now, with Janie's technical assistance, he was omnipresent.

He looked out the kitchen window to the structure of wood, metal, and concrete. If God played no part in the inspiration, construction, or inhabitation of that theater... then wasn't it Will's theater? He designed it, built it, paid for it, controlled it... didn't that make it his?

It _was_ his. And he had neglected it and now it was sick. Janie saw mold; now the curtain was gone. How could he have been so careless?

Maybe it was the popcorn. Maybe it was the fact that he was finally standing upright. Maybe the news about Hyde really _was_ inspiring. Whatever the reason for his newfound clarity, William's brain was working again.

Dance competitions would begin in a month. Janie was right about that too. Pauline Woodstock might pay an advance if it meant a better show, and he could use the money to tend to his theater's wounds of neglect. He would visit the hill in the morning to make a comprehensive list of needs.

If the theater was Will's to inhabit, then this house was merely its worldly counterpart. He would finish the remodel on time. He would conform to mortal ways. He would resist past temptations, become free of lies, and Sarah would see him for all that he was, and she would return!

Hyde's lamp turned on.

Will moved to the window and watched his friend plop down at the open laptop. Will sat down at his own computer and proceeded as Janie explained. He held the mouse with his right hand and moved the cursor to the icon in the corner of the screen. He clicked it and the green "connect" button appeared. He rolled the cursor over the button and—

An invisible force jerked his hand off the mouse. "What the..."

The string!

Will looked at the hole in his hand. He looked at the knot. He pressed his hand back to the mouse but the cord yanked it away. He pulled back harder—using his shoulder this time—but as quickly as he jerked down, the string popped it back up.

Then he remembered, _his left stub had no string!_ He twisted his shoulders and grappled at the mouse with his taloned fingers but his right hand attacked with master control and he dropped it.

"Dad!" Janie called. "Is he there yet?"

"He just sat down!" Will called back, masking the frustration in his voice.

He marched to the kitchen. He opened the junk drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. His right hand flailed in resistance so he pinched it between his stomach and counter, then cut the string.

Janie ran down the steps at machine-gun pace.

Will dropped the scissors in the drawer, stretched his fingers, cracked his knuckles and let the loose end of the string dangle from his freed hand.

"Is he still there?" Janie asked all clean and bright like the day she was born.

"Let's check," he said, then walked to the computer by the window. Janie sat down first and Will slid her pajama'd butt across the bench to make room for himself. He offered the bowl of popcorn. "I heard you on the phone. Did you talk to that boy?"

"Later." She grabbed a kernel and peered through the window, then whispered as if Hyde could hear. _"He's on the laptop."_

"Janie," Will lowered his tone. "Did you talk to that boy tonight?"

"Not yet."

"Janie," he said again, "this is our project, right?"

The "connect" button reflected green circles in her eyes. "Yeah," she said. "I'm not stupid."

Father and daughter remained quiet until they reached a silent understanding.

Will nodded and tussled her wet hair. "Then let's do this."

Janie grabbed the monitor and adjusted the screen for her height. "Did you push it yet?"

"Nope," he said. "Just waitin' on you." He placed his liberated hand on the mouse and moved the cursor to the button. "Ready?" he asked.

"Ready." she said.

And William clicked "connect."

**NINE - lilapricot'93**

" _ERROR: 0086428408456"_

Hyde was typing his story with sweaty palms when the error-alert popped in front of Baylee's chat box. He crinkled his nose and read it again: _"ERROR: 0086428408456"_

The stupid laptop belonged in a nursing home for electronics. Whatever "ERROR: 0086—la la la" meant, it was just another quirk in a long line of quirks he had to fix.

But not tonight.

He dragged the cursor to "cancel," clicked it, reopened his chat with Baylee, and finished typing his story.

**HWelectronics:** _i don't remember the year... but it would have been between fourth or fifth grade (you would have been... 2? hahaha) and we were just old enough to get hard but too young to really know what that meant. we did stuff before then too... but basically just touched each other to see what it felt like when it wasn't our own hands you know? typical boy stuff. believe it or not, all little boys are pervs. anyway we were at my house and everybody was gone and we decided that we wanted to try something... more... not because we were gay because (seriously) we weren't. or at least i wasn't. annnnnnd i can't believe i'm telling you this... but we looked all over my bathroom for something that would work, but i could only find chapstick. annnd as it turns out, chapstick doesn't really work for that. and it hurt. and we never spoke to each other again. there. your turn, and it BETTER BETTER BETTER be good!_

Hyde couldn't believe his pinky had the guts to press 'enter,' but it did. He wasn't worried about Baylee's response—her story would be way worse than his—but he had the same dirty feeling that God was watching.

She finally responded.

**lilapricot'93:** _hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha give me details! who was on top?!?!?_

**HWelectronics:** _hellll no. that's as detailed as i get with that story. i think i blocked out the rest anyway._

**lilapricot'93:** _but that's not embarrassing! it's just funny! nobody walked in on you? :)_

**HWelectronics:** _no! and it was embarrassing enough just telling you about it!_

**lilapricot'93:** _bahaha you r such a little perv_

**HWelectronics:** _nobody knows that story, btw. just me, that kid, and you._

**lilapricot'93:** _not even ur wife? lol_

Hyde actually laughed out loud at the idea of telling Kayla about his dirtiest secret. She would never ask, but if she did, he'd never tell.

**HWelectronics:** _nope. only you. your turn!_

**lilapricot'93:** _too many to pick from!_

**HWelectronics:** _dooo it._

**lilapricot'93:** _ummmmmmm okay i think i have 1 but you cant get sad ok? :/_

**HWelectronics:** _why would i get sad?_

**lilapricot'93:** _sometimes you get pissy when i talk about drugs, but you cant because salvia is legal_

**HWelectronics:** _salvia?_

**lilapricot'93:** _omg you dont know what salvia is_

Hyde's fingers zipped across the keyboard. He opened Google in his browser and entered the mysterious word. Several videos were listed under "salvia tripping," but he followed a link to "salvia effects."

**lilapricot'93:** _ur looking it up arent u!? lmao i know you so well! i bet ur on google right now typing in salvia hahahaha_

Baylee was quicker than Hyde and possessed a keen ability to make him feel like an old man. Whether she was spouting slang that he didn't understand (because he graduated college five years ago), or making eighties references she didn't get (because she was born a decade later), he was tragically unhip.

At least it was educational.

**HWelectronics:** _shut up and tell me the story!_

**lilapricot'93:** _i knew it! haha ok... well........._

Hyde knew what a long line of dots meant; Baylee would be typing an epic tale for the next several minutes. The aroma of lamb and thyme soothed him as he awaited her response.

Bay was hot, at least from the pictures, late-night video chats and his memory of their first and only face-to-face at the piano bar. Cheerleader-blond, perpetual tan, straight teeth and tight bod... but there was something greater than a flawless physique that drew Hyde in, and after a month of deliberation, he finally determined Baylee's greatest allure: she didn't dance.

Before he met Kayla, he had never heard of a _port de bras_ or a _pas de deux_. Now he was consumed by dance. There was shopping for dance, parties for dance, catalogs by the toilet for dance, parents of dance, "You're Miss Kayla's husband! Our daughter, fill-in-the-blank, adores her!"He changed his life for dance; _moved_ for dance, and where did he end up? Across from a _psycho_ for dance with all kinds of _crazy_ for dance. Dance began their friendship. Dance destroyed their friendship. Hyde still longed for friendship, but that stage (built for dance) ensured they'd never be friendly again.

Now it was _dance dance dance_ (at the damn damn theater) that was draining his attraction to Miss Kayla.

Baylee wasn't dance. She wasn't church. She wasn't theater or electronics or a white-picket fence—

Her embarrassing story finally exploded across his chat window with a massive block of text:

**lilapricot'93:** _well there r 7 levels of salvia and theyre all legal. u smoke it from a bong. its hard to describe whats going on in ur mind when ur doing it. i guess its most like shrooms or acid as far as hallucinogenic effects but its still really different. so anyway... i was with my friends and these guys i didnt know and it was my first time. they were all doing it out of a pipe so they werent getting very much u know? and they were doing level 2 which isnt very high at all. so i told them to give me the bong instead and sprinkle in level 5 which is wayyyy crazier than 2. so they loaded it up and everybody cheered. i took a huge hit and held it in, and when i came back to reality they were laughing so hard and my face was all wet because i dribbled on myself! and i wasnt wearing any bottoms at all. seriously my underwear was at my knees and i didnt know how they got there!_

The story _did_ make Hyde sad. Maybe it was the age difference, but Baylee's world had its own language and rituals and rules for love and sex that his sheltered childhood never had the opportunity to explore. He received his first kiss at the same age that Baylee lost her virginity. It broke his heart that "tripping salvia" and frat houses were the norm.

**HWelectronics:** _damn..._

**lilapricot'93:** _u wanted details lol_

**HWelectronics:** _when I said details, i thought it was going to be dirty._

**lilapricot'93:** _see? ur a perv :) but seriously baby u want to see god? trip salvia with me sometime_

The notion of meeting Baylee was too dangerous to consider.

**HWelectronics:** _someday sexy._

**lilapricot'93:** _really?_

**HWelectronics:** _how's your mother?_

**lilapricot'93:** _dont change the subject mr! :( a 30 minute drive and im all urs_

**HWelectronics:** _we'll talk about it later sweet girl._

**lilapricot'93:** _whennnn? ur wife is gone! whens the last time u even heard from her?_

**HWelectronics:** _a few days ago..._

**lilapricot'93:** _is she still with her sister and brother in-law?_

**HWelectronics:** _yes baby._

**lilapricot'93:** _i dont understand u. u say u love me and ur separated from ur wife. so come see me already! please? i'll dress all pretty for you :)_

"Hydey-wyd!" Kayla's call felt like a defibrillator on his marathon-ready heart. "Table's set and chops are hot!"

"Two minutes!" he said.

"You worked all day, now it's family time!"

"Two minutes!" He leaned forward, snapped the chain on the desk lamp, and finished the conversation in darkness.

**HWelectronics:** _how about this, i'm going to get a shower and grab a hot pocket for din. when i get back we can talk about it, okay?_

**lilapricot'93:** _oo baby ill be gone by then :( theres a party at u of m tonight so im drivin down there with cougs and jank_

Hyde laid his arm flat on the Ikea pressboard desk and dropped his head into the nook of his elbow. He hated when Baylee went out.

"Hydey?" Kayla called again. "Bring your lighter for the candle!"

He raised his head from its fabric cave and rested his chin on his forearm. "I'm stepping outside for a sec! I'll bring the lighter!"

"If I smell smoke on you, you're sleeping on the couch tonight!"

Hyde would do anything to sleep on the couch.

**HWelectronics:** _can i call?_

**lilapricot'93:** _of course! call call call! :D_

**HWelectronics:** _k... brb. xoxoxo_

Calling Baylee made him nervous. If Kayla heard him, he was in trouble. If Baylee heard Kayla, he was in trouble.

He cupped his hand over a Parliament, sparked the lighter, and took three quick puffs to start it.

"Hey there, sexy." Baylee's voice gave him an erection every time _._

"You're really driving to Ann Arbor tonight? It's after eight and that's a two-hour drive."

"Chillax, baby. It's all good people."

"It's Thursday."

"Thirsty Thursday. Biggest party night of the week."

"I don't want you to drive drunk."

"You're so paranoid!" Baylee slowed her voice to a condescending drawl. "Nobody's driving drunk, sweet boy. Your girl's not an idiot, okay? We'll crash at the house."

"Don't you have class tomorrow?"

"I'll be home in the afternoon and we'll talk before I go out, okay?"

The porch light flipped on at the Carmel house, followed by the stretching creek of a spring like a kitten crying in the dark. The screen door caught the light as it opened, then closed to reveal Will in the frame.

"Okay?" Baylee repeated, but Hyde forgot the conversation.

"Yeah baby," he whispered. "Okay."

Will found a seat on his favorite wicker chair. Hyde held the tar in his lungs.

"Listen," Baylee said. "I want you to have a ballin' night with your Hot Pocket, okay? I'll be gone, but you can text me whenever you need to. And if you want, you could look at the pics I sent while you're in the shower..."

He released a lingering billow of grey smoke. "You know I will. Be safe tonight?"

"Always."

"I love you, Bay."

"Mm. Goodnight, sexy." Baylee hung up, leaving Hyde alone in his cloud of smoke.

He looked at the silent figure across the street, then lifted his hand in a mediocre wave.

Will raised his hand and returned the gesture.

Hyde inhaled hard and the butt burned brighter. He tried to act nonchalant, but Will's gaze was unsettling.

The moon was hidden tonight, just below the curved horizon of the hill. Silver light haloed the theater's crest.

The chair, the house, the hill and the stage looked like a single solid entity from Hyde's point of view; a shadowed throne of magnificent proportion with Will seated at its heart.

Hyde considered calling out a joke or word of encouragement to his old friend, but the night wouldn't allow it. He dropped the butt instead, crushed the remaining sparks with his heel, and waved to Will for a second time.

William calmly reciprocated the gesture. The silhouette of his two remaining fingers bid Hyde farewell.

* * *

Hyde grabbed broccoli from the stove. Kayla grabbed bread from the island. They spun around at the same time and came face-to-face with their dishes nearly clanking. Kayla stuck out her lower lip in a psydo-sexy smile, then backed out of Hyde's path with a shuffle, a twist and a little _cha-cha-cha_. _Always dancing._ But Hyde smiled anyway and put the bread on the dining room table.

"I can buzz your hair tonight," she said after grace. "I know it's longer than you usually like it."

She was right, his hair was long. But Baylee liked it that way. "Not tonight," he replied.

"Okay. Just let me know."

Kayla's sincerity crushed Hyde. She could be gentle and kind. She deserved better than a husband who only stayed married because he couldn't bare to see her get hurt. Striving for decency was not a substitute for love.

He remembered how she cried—her face, dark, gaunt and terrified—whispering nightmares beneath the sheets until he had nightmares too. It started on the honeymoon with a mustard seed of doubt. As the construction of the stage wormed its way through his wife, that smidgen of uncertainty was magnified by the madness. It grew slowly and consistently despite his honest efforts to change (in those days, he wanted to change). The night of the prank was an honest effort too; an attempt to spark something new. When the ramifications drove her crazy, doubt blossomed and Hyde knew he couldn't spend the rest of his life with Kayla.

"Thyme reminds me of my mother's garden," she said.

"You say that every time you taste it." Hyde regretted his sarcasm the moment it left his lips. His eyes drifted up to survey the damage.

Kayla brushed off the comment with a smile. "They were just good memories."

_God, make it stop!_ If he could end this marriage and take her grief upon himself he would.

Hyde's fears were real. They were true. They existed then and they existed now. Even as she sat across the table—pleasant and polite with a smorgasbord of well-intentioned food— _he could not love her back._

Hyde wondered if that itch against his thigh was a vibrating text or merely a tickling phantom; the obnoxious result of cellphone romance. He checked his phone to be sure, but there were no missed calls.

"It's eight-thirty," Kayla said.

"Yeah?"

"You were checking your phone. Thought you wanted the time. Are you bored?"

"The chops are just right. Mild, but very juicy."

"I'm glad you like them."

Some would say that honesty is imperative for a healthy marriage; that all the little lies build up. But what was Hyde supposed to say? "Honey, the chops taste exactly like they did last time and, now that I think about it, they taste a little like the roast we had last Sunday and the steak we had the Sunday before," or "Honey, I can no longer stand the carrot color of your hair," or "Honey, I hate how you couldn't overcome your fear of hospitals to be with my mother when she died," or "I fear having kids with you because then I'll never have the courage to leave." Honesty would either break Kayla's heart or start another hopeless argument. Even Sarah Carmel—Minister of Truth—understood the disastrous ramifications of honesty. Even _she_ upheld a lie that would spare her husband's sanity.

Truth could also lead to lies. Hyde was sure he did the right thing when he confided his feelings to William. Yet by the end of that conversation he was stuck with promises he knew he couldn't keep. How could he possibly explain the breadth of this issue to his only friend? To _anyone_? How stupid it was to divulge his deepest anxiety to the man he both respected and feared more than anyone else.

Not only would he answer to God for his lies, he would also answer to William Carmel. And Hyde didn't know who he feared more.

"Did I tell you there's a trade show in Grand Rapids next month?" Hyde surprised himself so completely with his own question that he nearly choked on his roll.

"I don't think you did. Are you going? Or will you send a rep?"

"I was thinking about going. Lots of new products this year—"

"That's exciting." Kay sipped her tea. "I know the routine. Late dinners, early alarm, suit-coat and slacks instead of—"

"I thought I might spend a couple nights in town; save the hassle of late nights and early commutes." Hyde stabbed his fork at a veggie and studied his wife's reaction.

She lifted her napkin, patted a drop of tea from her lips and kept her eyes on the plate of bones. "How many nights?"

"Two. Maybe three depending on how it's going."

"It's only a thirty-minute drive. Are you sure you—"

"You know how late those business dinners can go."

"You're right. That should be fine." Her smile was forced.

Hyde returned the smile and his mind fell to Baylee. Somehow, lilapricot'93 was already more real. Fantasies of her touch would no longer be limited to showers and dreams but her skin would be his to lust; in his arms, pressed, held, teased, palming breasts and thighs interlocked. Though she played no part in the downfall of his poisonous marriage, she was the antidote that cured the mounting symptoms.

"I'm glad we didn't wait for Sunday," Kayla said. "This was a nice dinner." She extended her hands across the table—past the candle and tomorrow night's leftovers—and Hyde met her halfway.

* * *

Hyde relaxed on his favorite recliner and nibbled the remaining meat from the bone of last night's lamb. He dropped the bone on the plate, set the plate beside the recliner, and called Giggles to clean it. The dog jumped from his pillow by Kay's feet and scampered across the room. Hyde ran his thumb over unfamiliar sideburn stubble and tried again to focus on the television. If he didn't appear to be fully immersed in _CSI: Miami_ , Kayla would know something was wrong.

He kept his attention on the TV while covertly opening his cellphone in the valley between his leg and the leather arm of the chair. He peered down and scanned the afternoon's text for the eightieth time.

" _missin u boy!"_

"Ah-ha!" Kayla said and he jammed the phone back in his pocket. "Ah-ha" meant she finally discovered a puzzle piece she was scrounging for; another one of her quirks.

The puzzles Kayla chose to assemble had no overarching theme; nothing that connected the images she built to her other interests. Sometimes they were pictures of famous paintings, sometimes they were Star Trek. The only through-line he could find in her puzzles was the fact that they were puzzles. About twice a month, she would ritualistically hodge-podge her completed work and store it in the guest-room closet. There was a knee-high stack on the floor behind her prom dress and wedding dress with a single sheet of newspaper between each puzzle. On the occasion that she completed a puzzle only to discover that a piece was missing, she boxed it up, exchanged the toy, and assembled the replacement.

Hyde blocked out the "ah-ha"s and focused on the show, but his innards churned with inconsolable anxiety and forty-five minutes later, he still had no idea of who was killing who. _Please text me, Bay,_ he thought.

Maybe she dropped by the hospital to visit her mom. Maybe she was sleeping in the car while the other girls drove back.

Maybe she stopped liking him.

Maybe she realized this was wrong.

"Ah-ha!"

Hyde closed his eyes and recalled the exhilaration from the night they reconnected. Will was in the hospital with crushed fingers. Kayla found relief in their friends' pain... then Hyde made her come on the kitchen counter. She went to bed satisfied. He turned on the computer.

He needed a connection. He needed a shoulder. He needed to experience—first-hand—the exploits that his neighbor experienced early in life. So he entered every variation of "little," "apricot," and "1993" until Baylee's photo appeared.

She asked about his wife. He said it was complicated. They talked about college courses, drug abuse, absent fathers and sick mothers... Baylee's mom had Parkinson's.

Three hours later Hyde was helping her determine career goals. Three nights later they had cyber-sex. Three weeks later he said, "I love you."

Back in reality, his pocket buzzed. He grabbed his phone and scanned the text, _"im home im home! come online?"_ then slammed the recliner (scaring the shit out of poor Giggles) and leapt from his seat.

He muttered to Kay, "I'll be working," then sealed himself in the study before she could respond.

**HWelectronics:** _are you okay??? how was your trip?_

**lilapricot'93:** _so much fun! we got there late, partied till dawn and crashed on the floor. didnt feel like driving when i got up so we went for coffee with jank's friend matty._

**HWelectronics:** _i was worried. it's late._

**lilapricot'93:** _ur always worried! but im fine and safe at home now :D_

**HWelectronics:** _were there boys at the party?_

" _ERROR: 0086428408456"_

Again with that error; second time today. Hyde hit "cancel" and read Baylee's reply.

**lilapricot'93:** _it was a frat party dork. of course there were boys. but nobody tried anything ;) all good people!_

**HWelectronics:** _did you get high?_

**lilapricot'93:** _omg babyyyy do u really wanna know these things??_

**HWelectronics:** _yes._

**lilapricot'93:** _fine. just pot. but dont get all sad! i missed u! :(_

**HWelectronics:** _i'm not sad..._

**lilapricot'93:** _i thought about u every second and i looked at ur pic on my phone about a magillion times._

**HWelectronics:** _bay, do you still like me?_

**lilapricot'93:** _ohh yes yes yes OF COURSE i do sweet boy..._

**HWelectronics:** _even though i'm in a really bad place in my life? why do you like a married guy who you can't even see?_

**lilapricot'93:** _married? >:(_

**HWelectronics:** _separated!* sorry! but seriously... you could have any boy in the world. why do you like me?_

**lilapricot'93:** _!!! where do i start? u say ALL the right things. u appreciate me and ur always lifting me up :) u make me feel good about myself. u listen to songs with me all night long and actually have fun... or at least u pretend to! ur older too. but not too old! and thats totally hot. u need to stop asking silly questions baby. ur the kind of boyfriend that every girl wants to have..._

**HWelectronics:** _i'm so glad you think that... here's the big question... are you ready??_

**lilapricot'93:** _i guess so!_

**HWelectronics:** _do you still like me enough to meet me in person?_

**lilapricot'93:** _!!!!!!!jffdadoiaher;oiah!!!!!!!!!!!_

**HWelectronics:** _i was thinking maybe i'd take a vacation from work early next month. maybe get a cheap hotel, get you away from the roommates for a few nights... how does that sound?_

**lilapricot'93:** _!!! i cant think of anything more perfect :') r u for real?!? it doesnt make u nervous anymore?_

**HWelectronics:** _it does. grand rapids is my old stomping ground. but we'll be careful._

**lilapricot'93:** _i CANNOT WAIT! i wanna stay up all night with you laying under the covers talking about anything and everything, never running out of things to say. i wanna go on long car rides and get lost on purpose just because. i wanna go to a drive-in movie and not watch it. i wanna make you explore abandoned houses with me! and so much more..._

**HWelectronics:** _so much more?_

**lilapricot'93:** _mmm... maybe. but dont u believe premarital sex is evil?_

**HWelectronics:** _of course. but i'm married!_

**lilapricot'93:** _hahahaha ur AWFUL_

**HWelectronics:** _what time are you going out tonight, sweetie?_

**lilapricot'93:** _hmmmm... val called a few minutes ago and wants to go downtown at 9 and steven wants me to go to a movie with him and his boy at 9:30_

**HWelectronics:** _oh. okay baby..._

**lilapricot'93:** _i told them both no_

**HWelectronics:** _? but it's friday!_

**lilapricot'93:** _i know. but id like to spend the night in my bed with my door locked and talking to my boyfriend_

**HWelectronics:** _...really?_

**lilapricot'93:** _give me 20 minutes to shower and shave then maybe we can chat on the webcam and ill give u a preview of next week..._

**HWelectronics:** _i couldn't ask for a better night._

* * *

May

Only two more hours until Baylee finished her Wednesday classes. Only two more hours until Hyde would open a hotel-room door to reveal his goddess.

The plan was set. The trade-show tickets were purchased and confirmed, Whitaker Electronics was safely in the hands of Hyde's second-in-command, and he said his goodbyes to Kay before she left for dance. Only one hurdle remained between the doldrums of home and the exhilaration of the unknown: a porch-date with Will.

If the casual invitation was offered a month ago, Hyde would have jumped at the chance to support his friend. Will once listened to Hyde's gripes (albeit reluctantly) and did the best he could to offer advice. Although Hyde later regretted his candidness, it didn't minimize Will's sincerity. The least he could do was return the favor...

But after seeing William on the porch that night with holes instead of eyes, Hyde began to question his persistence in maintaining the friendship.

He masked his excitement for Baylee by keeping a cool façade with his slouching ass on the wicker chair and his heels on the plastic railing. "The new porch is slick," he said, then bounced his feet on the hollow white molding. "Sturdy too."

Will rolled his neck around the rim of his tee until it made an audible pop. "It lost some character in the transformation, but I'll get over it. Siding starts tomorrow."

"Mmm." Hyde sipped his iceless lemonade and searched for any topic to further the small talk. They already killed thirty minutes discussing the bells and whistles of Will's new laptop, but he needed more.

He careened his head to the left and saw a rainbow flag in the window of the new neighbor's home. He loved the fresh diversity in Brandywine, but Will would hardly consider Clint and Travis "small talk."

"I think my body needed this," Will said and extended his bare arms into the light. "I've been locked in that house for too long."

"I'm glad you're up and about. New computers, porch-dates, construction... what snapped you out of it?"

Will straightened his back and squeezed his shoulder blades until his sternum popped. "Several things, but Janie was the spark. She prodded me until I could think clearly again. Then I thought of Sarah; she's still my wife and she's still my motivation. She changed me when we met. Now she began a new transformation."

"If Sarah goes through with the divorce... will she try to take Janie?"

"I'm not fooling myself." Will narrowed his eyes until Hyde could barely see the pupils. "The new-and-improved Will Carmel will do anything to win back his wife's love, but if I fail, I'll fight for my daughter. I'll prove I'm clean. I'll show that I have a steady income and appropriate home in which to raise a child. The court will see that I've never abused her. And hopefully, they'll consider her say."

"Well, we're glad to have you back."

"I need to be back. Dance competitions start next month."

"Ah," Hyde said. "Sparkle Motion in June. The girls are practicing hard."

Will snapped his fingers. "Almost forgot." He reached under the chair with a squid-like arm and retrieved a yellow envelope with an orange bow. "I was inputing dates into my laptop's calendar and noticed that it was your wife's birthday yesterday."

Hyde accepted the card. "I'm sure she'll appreciate the thought."

"Two years since the party..."

"How things change," Hyde said with the starry-eyed gaze of faux-reminiscence.

His phone buzzed. There was no reason to be coy, so he pulled it out.

Will said, "Tell the pretty young thing I said 'hi.'"

Lemonade nearly shot out Hyde's nose, then he realized Will was referring to Kayla. "Yeah," he said. "I'll tell her."

He looked at the digital display. _"cant control this longing to be with u, with my whole body and mind i want to fuck u so hard and beautifully i can hardly stand it. never felt like this with anyone b4. just thought u should know. 1 more class sexy then ur mine ;)"_

"I hate to ask..." Will began.

Hyde snapped his phone and buried it.

"...but you came to me for advice awhile back, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about our conversation."

Here it comes.

"How are things really going with Kayla?"

Hyde spent all morning preparing for this question. "Never been better," he said. "Those feelings didn't lead anywhere, so I figured it was silly to tell her about a ridiculous moment of doubt."

"Honesty is vital to a marriage."

"I agree. But we've been talking more and more every day and I'm starting to feel a strong connection building between us."

"I read a magazine article and thought of you. Says there's a new trend for young people to view their first marriage like training wheels for the real thing. Isn't that sad?"

"It is."

"I'm glad you're taking your vows seriously." Will raised his lemonade. "To becoming better people. To treating our ladies right."

"Hear, hear," Hyde said and raised his glass to clink Will's.

A blue mini-van turned into the driveway. The back door slid open and Janie hopped out.

Will lifted his hand to the driver. "Much appreciated, Julie! Let me know when I can return the favor!"

The woman nodded and waved, then eased her van down the drive.

Janie tumbled up the steps and took a sip of her dad's drink. "Needs ice. You fed this to our guest?"

"You know I'm a bad host," he replied.

Janie rolled her eyes and dropped her bag by the front door, then hoisted herself to the new railing beside Hyde's relaxing feet. "It was good seeing you the other night, Mr. Whitaker." Her feet swung between the posts and created a rhythmic _swish-swish-swish_ against her jeans.

Hyde forced his eyes to stay on hers so they wouldn't accidentally jump to the scar. "I enjoyed seeing you too. Miss Kayla gets to hang with you every day and I feel like I'm missin' out."

Janie looked to her Dad and raised her brow. "Did you invite them?"

Will shrugged. "I was just about to, I swear."

"Quit swearing and just do it!" She released a deliberate sigh and turned back to Hyde, then raised her legs and rested her feet on his knees. "I told Dad how you guys offered to bring us food the other night, and he suggested that we have you over for dinner."

"When do you think we should do it?" Will asked.

"How about tonight?" she replied. "I just picked up the ingredients for spaghetti."

Will looked to Hyde. "Janie's adamant about becoming a better cook than her mother."

"Mom's spaghetti tastes like butt," Janie confirmed. "Whaddya say, Mr. Whitaker?"

"Thanks for the offer," Hyde said, "but I'm out of town tonight. On business."

"Oh," Janie said and slid her feet off his legs.

"Can't get out of it?" Will asked.

"Sorry guys." Hyde almost offered up his wife's name since she'd be alone all night, but Kayla wouldn't set foot in that house anymore. "Maybe when I get back."

Janie nodded and hopped off the rail. "I'll be practicing in my room."

When she was gone, Hyde dropped his legs, slapped his hands on the arms of the chair, and—

"Do you see that divot in the grass over there?"

Hyde curled his toes, then slouched back in his seat. He followed Will's nod, peered between the railing posts, and saw the indent in the yard. "Where'd it come from?"

"Been there for over a decade. Did I ever tell you about my dog, Challo?"

"I don't—"

"Big lady. German Shepherd and Black Lab mix. Blind in her left eye since the day she was born. Beautiful, _beautiful_ dog."

"I take it she liked to dig holes?"

"Never dug a hole in her life. She knew I'd be upset." Will's face had a rare gleam as he stared at the hole.

Hyde wished the story would move faster. "So how did it get there?"

Will laughed through his nose, then pushed himself from his chair and moseyed to the vertical support beam by the steps. He leaned against the beam, folded his arms, and stared at the hole. "Back before we knew Challo would never run away, we kept her in a heavy-duty chain-link pen right on that spot. Sarah loved Challo, but it was hard to bring food and water in and out of the gate because Chall would squirm between her legs to get free. So I got my tools and I cut a hole near the bottom of the pen where the food bowls go. Too small for Challo to get through, but wide enough for the bowls. You follow?"

Hyde nodded.

"Well, I'm writing on the porch one day—got my typewriter out here too—and this mangy creature strolls out of the woods; probably wondered from the low-rents on Boulevard. Short hair—more like stubble than fur—and a bit smaller than Chall. That ugly dog lifted his nose. He knew instantly there was a bitch nearby. I'm sitting there watching this fella, and I remember that my Challo's in heat; saw the drops on the linoleum that morning. And let me tell you Hyde, that ugly-ass dog bolted to that fence and circled it six times with a cock like a Pringles can. As you can probably guess, the dog discovers the hold I made. Challo and I aren't worried because we know he'll never fit, but that doesn't stop him from tryin'. He gets his head through first, easy enough, but now the metal ends are diggin' into his neck. I meant to fix those sharp edges, but Challo never tried to escape so I forgot about it. But this dog, he pushes harder and harder and doesn't even consider the fact that if he pulls out now, he can return home and spray a teddy bear. But that smell... one waft is driving him crazy. So he sticks his paw in. Gets all the way up to his shoulder, but now he's crooked and he can't get the other front leg in. It's my theory that the dog had to inhale to become small enough to get the first paw in, but when he exhaled, his fat fell around those jagged points. He squirmed and barked like you wouldn't believe. That fence cut through his stomach, but his legs kept flingin' grass and dirt. Now he's just trying to get free. He forgets why he's stuck in the fence in the first place. He howls and kicks and Challo and I... we just look at each other. My dog doesn't bat an eye. She sits in the middle of the pen and watches that dumb dog kill himself. And he did. Just dropped limp. Left a heck of a mess and I had to pull him out before Sarah got home. And what was it all for? What was so important that he was willing to spill his intestines on my front lawn?" Will rapped his fingers on the plastic rail. "Sex," he said. "What a stupid dog."

* * *

As Hyde inspected the oafish form of his naked body in the bathroom mirror, the image returned of that stupid slump of lifeless dog on the Carmel's front lawn. If Will only knew how appropriate his little parable was.

Hyde splashed his face with water to dispel the thought, then refocused on his appearance. Until five months ago, his love handles, moobs, and double chin were perfectly comfortable with his laziness. Then he met Baylee online and—even without the promise of a meet-up—he began exercising to bring him back to his ideal one-seventy. Last night the scale read one-eighty-two. _Makin' progress._

Style was a bigger issue than weight. His mother once said he was the only twelve-year-old who ironed his own pants. Baylee liked t-shirts and jeans, but Hyde's closet contained one t-shirt for every five Polos, and one pair of jeans for every ten pairs of khakis. She promised she didn't care what he wore as long as she had her boy.

But he had to wear _something_ so he settled on a pair of black jeans that hung a belt-notch too loose (which made him feel better about his physique), and a vintage-style tee that read "Think Green" with a pine tree growing from the trunk of the "k."

The back of the condom box had the same instructions as it did five minutes ago, but he had to be sure. The only time Hyde ever donned a rubber was in a gas-station bathroom out of pubescent curiosity. Kayla began birth control two months before the wedding, so there was never another opportunity for practice.

Another text arrived while he was sitting on the pot. _"IN THE CAR! 10 MINUTES AWAY!"_

The Holliday Inn was quaint and plastic; a huge step up from the seedy motel-rooms Hyde associated with this sort of thing. The purple evening provided enough atmosphere to supplement the cold fluorescents, so Hyde turned off the overheads and left on a single floor lamp. The king bed sported teal and peach covers and a mint on each pillow. The curtains matched the comforter in both color and texture and hung straight over cream vertical blinds. Hyde ran his hand along the seam to assure the material could block light.

His suitcase was by the desk, open and sectioned off by six invisible compartments; two held fastidious shirts, two held blocks of pants, one held socks and a pair of brown loafers, and the last cubby was reserved for toiletries.

A knock at the door— _it was her_! How did he smell? How did he taste? If his heart didn't slow down... She knocked again and said in that familiar sweet voice, "Hello in there?"

Hyde sniffed his pits, glanced in the mirror; a spurt of cologne in the bathroom and he opened the door.

Here was an angel, the suitcase handle extending to the faux-fur cuff-lining of her plush pink jacket and she dropped the bag to better wrap her arms around his neck. Falling into her warmth she smelled like perfume, her body softer and lighter than he remembered under a grey v-neck and and jeans with a hole in the thigh. Her fingers climbed his back as she held him too, and when she pulled away and studied his face, she was everything he remembered and more; earrings and eyeliner and other feminine details he missed out on _._ Her eyes were worn, blue like a favorite denim skirt with pupils as dark as a thousand midnight skies. She was an inch shorter so she wrapped fingers behind his neck and pulled herself to his lips and she tasted _just like woman_ with no hint of lipgloss or gum; just _woman_ and he kissed her again. With a rattle of metal hangers they fell to the wall and she pushed her pelvis against his leg as she opened his lips and showed him her tongue. His right hand explored—between shirt and jacket—the strap and snap of a college girl's bra as his left thumb wrapped the string of her thong. But she didn't swat him away because she wanted him there and he would remember that most: that _Baylee wanted him there._ She was happy with his hands where they were and her hands in his hair and her nose against his, breathing his air.

She leaned back, her waist in his hands no wider than a sideways football and her wrists locked at the back of his neck. "You're even cuter than I remember," and she smiled again.

Hyde didn't respond (because she _couldn't_ be serious) but picked her up by that waist and carried her to the bed.

"Shit," he said and placed her on her feet. "Hold on."

Her smile drooped as he let her go and she grappled at him with puppy eyes, one on his heart and the other on his balls.

"These comforters are filthy." He began to peel back the corner but she shoved him and they fell into the invisible stains of previous liaisons.

"I promise you, darling," she said, "I'm a hundred times dirtier than the sheets."

The back of his head felt defiled as the skin touched the plasticy-slick sheet, but the thought faded as they merged with the blanket. Bay slipped from her jacket and rested one knee on each side of his thighs, then crawled up his chest until she could tongue his earlobe. Her shirt came off next and her hair snapped through the hole as her body revealed itself; smooth and tan with the occasional freckle or mole, and when her elbows kissed behind her back and she unclasped her bra, Hyde knew he was head first into every man's fantasy.

She bit her lower lip and gyrated her pelvis against him, then she worked up his shirt and bruised his chest with kisses. He had dreamt of her breasts... over and over he dreamt of them against his skin, but she pulled back, fell to her knees at the foot of the bed, and wiggled off his jeans and plaid boxers. He closed his eyes and nearly prayed that she liked how he looked; that he compared admirably with eighteen, nineteen, twenty-year-old boys. She disappeared for a moment at the base, but before Hyde could ask what happened, she stood, her own jeans removed with no tan lines or hair; she smiled with the slight indication of a buried dimple and inched back up his body until her crotch was on his thigh (her legs were soft with no dancer's muscle), her small breasts against his arm and her mouth whispering, "Still like me?"

He nodded; _oh how he meant it when he nodded!_ His breastbone found hers and they alined in movement as their breathing synced.

_Condom!_ he remembered at the last second and blindly patted the nightstand's shelf while Baylee teased. The saltine-shaped packet cowered beside the Gideon; Hyde's brain ignored the ping of guilt when he touched one while grappling for the other.

It rolled on easily and she kissed him again with open eyes and her cheekbones raised against his when she saw his were open too; those long lashes and blue irises and she held his gaze while taking him in her hand.

They found each other—she slid down as his chin turned up—and Hyde knew he could live out every fantasy with this girl; blindfolds, handcuffs, public places, every position up down and sideways, _yet he loved her_ (right?), not because she would do it all, but because she was different _._

* * *

"I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry, sweet girl?"

"I'm sorry I can't say it back."

"I understand."

"It's not a phrase that I can just—"

"I know. But it doesn't change how I feel."

"I know."

"Can I still say it?"

"Yes."

"I love you, Baylee."

"I'm glad..."

"Why are you crying? What's wrong?"

"I've never been happier, and I've never been more scared..."

"Scared? Why?"

"I feel awful about everything."

"I know you do. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry."

"I worry about you, Bay. I worry about where you'll be when you're thirty and you look back on these days and regret me. Sometimes I think I'm hurting you—"

"I'll never regret you."

"I want to be good for you."

"I've been thinking about things today..."

"Yeah?"

"It'll make you sad."

"Is it about drugs?"

"No."

"Then tell me."

"You know I care about you, right?"

" _Tell me."_

"Sometimes I think I need to end it; just stop talking to you and let you move on."

"But?"

"I care about you and I know you love me and the last thing I want to do is hurt you. But you're only separated, Hyde. And you keep telling me you don't know how you feel about her or if it'll ever actually end. And if you stay married, then _you_ will regret _me_. I'll be your mistake. If you get back with her, I'll either be your secret or your confession."

"Bay..."

"This is what I decided: I'll live this weekend like you're my boyfriend. You'll see who I am and I'll see who you are. But when you're gone, _you're gone_. You can call me to ask about school, but no more texts, no more chats, no more 'I love you's. When the divorce is in motion, we can try again under clear conditions."

"I understand."

"You're not upset? You won't fight me?"

"It's the best thing for you. I've been thinking it too but wasn't strong enough to say it. I think that makes you a better person."

"Even in heartbreak you're incredible."

"You make it easy."

"We better make these nights good then, huh?"

"You better believe it."

* * *

"But you have a webcam! Please can we do it? Who would I send pictures to?"

"But they'll be on my computer—"

"We'll delete them. Email 'em to me and delete the files from your hard drive."

"And the email."

"And the email!" Baylee crouched on all fours by Hyde's legs and rested her chin on his laptop screen.

He leaned forward and kissed her nose. "Let me finish ordering and we'll see."

"We'll see? How 'bout I stop lovin' you till I have a picture of us in my inbox."

"Fine. No more sex."

"You wouldn't!"

"I'm not here for sex. I'm here because I want to be with my girl." Hyde caught another glimpse of her dimple.

She tapped his nose with her finger and stood on the bed in one sock, his boxers, and his green tee. "When the pizza guy comes, let me get the door like this."

"No way."

"And you can wear my panties. Maybe a purple bra... it'll be cute!"

"You can wear whatever you want. I don't want him to see me."

"You really think the pizza guy's gonna know you?"

"Never know." Hyde copied the hotel's address from the bedside stationary into the "delivery instructions" prompt on their website.

" _ERROR: 0086428408456"_

"Shit," he said.

Baylee dropped to her knees and the computer bounced on Hyde's lap. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Stupid error."

"Virus?"

"Better not be; I have two antivirus programs on this puppy." He clicked "cancel" and resumed the pizza order. "We have a large, thin-crust pizza with half pepperoni, sausage and ham, and half pineapple and chicken."

"And a two-liter of Diet."

"How could I forget."

"Now submit the damn order and take a picture with your girlfriend."

Hyde pushed the order button, closed the website, then opened his webcam application. "I'm only doing this so you don't forget me when I leave."

Baylee gasped, grinned, and squished her body against Hyde. She waved to herself on the computer screen, then stuck her tongue out and licked Hyde's face. "Aake da picure!" she said with her tongue dragging against his cheek.

Hyde widened his eyes, formed his lips into a scandalous "O," and took a digital photo with the computer's built-in webcam.

* * *

"It's natural."

"So is arsenic."

"You drink and smoke! Those are so much worse."

"They're legal."

"Weed is legal in some states!"

"That's not entirely—"

"You told me you wanted to get high."

(He thought of Will and that mischievous glimmer in his eye at the mention of his past.) "That was before I knew you better."

"I thought you wanted to escape your life!"

"And here I am!" Hyde was emphatic but kept quiet so the kids in the loft couldn't hear the argument.

Baylee's eyes turned from disappointment to understanding. "I know how you feel about it and I'm sorry for pressing you. I don't want to be that kind of girlfriend. If you tell me to stop bugging you, I'll stop. But you haven't actually told me to stop yet, so part of me thinks that part of _you_ doesn't want me to stop."

"You already sound high." He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror of some scuzzy college kid's studio apartment. He felt gross, but the dust bunnies in the sink made him reconsider washing his hands. He kissed Baylee's forehead. "I'm not a prude. I want to smoke, but I want to be a good example for you because I don't want _you_ to smoke."

"So you're allowed to do it but I'm not?"

"I don't know."

"Figure it out, dork! We need to go back out there. This looks weird."

"Bah! I wrote a winning speech in my sixth-grade D.A.R.E. class and I vowed never to—"

" _Vow, vow, vow."_ Baylee unbuttoned her jeans, pulled them down, and sat on the toilet.

"Oh," Hyde said. "Sorry." He turned and grabbed the door.

"You've never seen a girl pee before? I thought you were married."

"We do that separate."

"Turn around and talk to me."

Hyde obeyed.

"If you want to get outta here, we can go back to the hotel. I'd love to spend every second I can with—"

"I'll do it."

"Do it?" She wiped and stood.

"I'll smoke with you."

"Are you sure?"

"It's my decision and I say fuck it."

Baylee squealed and pecked his cheek. "I promise you've been making a big deal out of nothing."

Hyde searched the caverns of his personality for his long-lost ego. Before the theater— _before William_ —he was the alpha-dog in his circle of friends. But when he left them for Brandywine's crazy neighbor-prophet, he quickly fell into the role of sidekick.

The kids sat in a circle of Goodwill couches and sheetless beds. As further proof of his waning social skills, he had already forgotten their names.

Hyde watched a girl accept a passing blunt as the host (Jeremy?) used an extension cord to plug in a toaster-shaped vaporizer. Hyde recognized the device from the small-appliance aisle of his store.

"Somebody got a cold?" a boy asked, stealing Hyde's joke.

"Gives a cleaner high," Baylee replied and took the blunt from Cougs. She brought the cigar to her lips as she explained the benefits of smoking cannabis with a vaporizer.

Hyde cringed. It wasn't the fact that she was doing drugs that hurt him, it was casual ease at which she accepted and held the blunt; the way she inhaled the smoke without missing a beat of conversation. The notion of "being high" was a natural extension of Baylee that he didn't yet understand, and with every moment that passed between her turn and his, he felt left out of some hilarious inside joke.

Bay's voice dropped in pitch as she sealed the smoke in her lungs and reminded Hyde of his mother's raspy croak in her final years. "People call it vapor, but that's not the right word because it doesn't use water. But it minimizes the smell so it's good for home-use, and it doesn't release carbon-monoxide into your blood so it's healthier too."

Hyde prepared himself for the blunt, but when Baylee finished her toke, she passed it over him to the couple on the chair. "Umm..."

"You don't want the blunt baby. It's just the seeds and stems from last night's vaporizer." She snapped her fingers to Jeremy. "Hey Jer, give my boy the hose."

Everyone cheered. One of the boys cupped his mouth like a foghorn. "Viiiiiirgin."

"Decided to pop your cherry after all?" Jeremy asked.

"I'll try anything once!" Hyde said, feeding off the renewed excitement.

The kid settled into the couch between the girls. "It's ready to go old-man. Just flip 'er on."

Hyde scooted the machine across the table until the hose reached his lips, then hit the blue switch. All eyes were on him.

Baylee touched his chest with her palm. "Remember, it's not like a cigarette. You need to inhale for as long as you can, then hold it in your lungs—"

"—for a long time," someone added. "Seriously bro, don't exhale for like, a long-ass time."

"Coughing is normal for first-timers," Baylee said. "But you probably won't do that as much with the vaporizer."

Hyde put the tip of the rubber tube in his mouth and tried desperately to look cool. He looked to Bay, then inhaled.

"Suck it!" they cried and Baylee laughed.

Hyde's eyes were wide and he nodded approval as if he could already feel the effects.

"Keep going!"

"Go, go, go, go!" the girls chanted.

He dropped the hose from his mouth and continued to nod.

"Don't let it out!"

"Hold. That. Shit. In!"

Hyde looked around the circle. His face was probably bright red, but he didn't break. When his brain screamed for oxygen, he exhaled a smokeless breath of air.

Nothing.

"You okay, baby?" Baylee whispered.

"Uh huh. I don't think I did it right."

She didn't respond, but flicked her enormous pupils between his.

"My face feels a little tingly... but that's all." Hyde pouted and shook his head to the anxious spectators.

There was no transition. It just happened as if he realized he was awake instead of asleep. "Ha!" he blurted.

The group of girls fell together like bowling pins in fits of laughter while the couple in the chair nodded with knowing grins. Baylee raked her fingers through his hair and squeezed until it hurt. Her tongue tasted... _better_. Much, much, _so much better_.

For two years, the worries wove in and through Hyde's mind until they became a hairball of tangled knots and loose ends. But now his problems were sectioned into manageable cubbies like the clothes in his suitcase. Suddenly, he had the perfect words to make Kayla leave. He knew just what to tell Will so he could fix his relationship with Sarah. _He finally had the poetry to explain his love for Baylee._

Somewhere between handfuls of Cheetos and his second cig, Hyde broke his silence with words both eloquent and profound. "I was nineteen when I dreamt that my mother had lung cancer. She was a smoker from the day she was born, so it made sense that the dream was a manifestation of my fears. I don't remember the dream, but when I woke up I had this horrible feeling like I _knew_ she was going to get cancer. There was this weight on my heart like God was telling me I had to talk to her; I had to tell her to quit. But at the time I was too busy learning to run a business. We didn't have the sort of relationship where I could tell her big things like that... so I didn't. I didn't tell her about the dream and I didn't tell her about my feeling of dread. On my twenty-first birthday, I was out with friends at a steak house eating peanuts by the bucket... my phone rings and Mom tells me she has 'squamous cell carcinoma.'"

"I'm so sorry..." someone said.

"To this day there isn't a doubt in my mind that my mother's lungs were clear on the night God gave me that dream. If I would have sat her down and just... _talked to her..._ "

Baylee's head was in his lap. She traced invisible letters on his knee but he couldn't make out the words.

"God gave me the chance for a miracle... and I blew it."

Baylee lifted her head from his lap and forced a smile behind a single black tear; not a blubbering mess of spit, just a single droplet and he kissed it away.

* * *

It was Bay's idea to ride out the remainder of the high with sex at the hotel ("It doubles the intensity of your orgasm," she said), but a call from her best friend ruined the plan.

"I'm so sorry, sweet boy. Jank is drunk off her ass and she needs a ride to a different party."

Hyde reassured her by kissing her arm. "You're a good friend."

"It won't take long. I'll drop you at Cannonsburg and I'll be back in twenty."

"Cannonsburg? The ski resort?"

"That's where the party's at."

"I can't come?"

"She doesn't want you to see her drunk."

"You're kidding. Why would I—"

"I won't if you don't want me to."

He kissed her hand. "Of course I want you to."

"I'll make it up to you tonight. I promise."

The mountain was chilly with a soggy blanket of fog. Baylee dropped him off beneath a lamp on a dirt patch between the road and a cliff. She seemed confident in her plan when she was explaining it, but as Hyde kicked a shoe-full of gravel down the rocks, he wondered if it was wise to listen to the expertise of a stoned nineteen-year-old.

At the loft, Hyde's fear of being discovered fell to the wayside and made room for more positive thoughts. But now, a car was approaching through the fog and he could only assume the figure behind the headlights was an old friend.

_Shit,_ he needed to think of a good lie! Why was he was alone on a mountain instead of a business meeting?

The headlights grew larger as the car ascended the winding hill. It was slowing down... _Hyde was sure it was slowing down!_

But it didn't. It passed. And he exhaled.

The fog was tangible and pure like the stream of mist from the vaporizer. Hyde breathed in and held it, but it was only air.

He sat on the dirt and scooted his butt to the edge of the hill. Trees—mostly pine—descended the cliff like green stalagmites into vapor.

Hyde thought of home. He thought of his stores. He thought of Kayla, beige walls, bible studies, and nine-to-five.

When people heard the name "Hyde Whitaker," what word or phrase first came to mind? "Electronics?" "Dance?" "Dead Mom?" "White?" _"William Carmel's Friend?"_ Did Sarah have the same problem? Is that why she left? No job, no passion, no identity besides "William Carmel's Wife?"

The night they met, William knew Hyde better than Hyde knew himself. Will saw a man so transparent he could have been the cookie-cutter prototype for every white, twenty-something male with a smorgasbord of hobbies and commonplace beliefs worthy of a phrase on a rock.

Baylee wasn't just _passion_ , she was _definition._

" _I don't hide anything,"_ William once told him while devouring a lemon. _"I destroyed my ambitions, rebuilt them, then left them behind."_

As Hyde's mind rambled, the cool air packed the fog into an eerie sheet at the base of the mountain. Grand Rapids was off to the left, blocked from his field of view by the mountain's foliage. The Midwest landscape of farms and forest bucked and rolled to all corners of Hyde's visible world, and scattered lights momentarily distracted him with a game of connect-the-dots. He found a shark, a vacuum cleaner and a brontosaurus.

One light was brighter than the rest, and whitish-blue instead of yellow. The rogue dot was closer to the horizon (above the horizon?) and Hyde suddenly understood the source of his mindset. It wasn't the weed. _It was that light._

His feet clamored against the cliff and he stood. He snapped out his arm and pointed at the distant speck and screamed across the void, "What do you want me to do!" His voice skipped across the fog like a flat pebble on a lake. "Do you want me stay with her? Is that the right thing to do?" Hyde knew it could hear him; that light, _that stage_. It heard everything, stalking him like those growing headlights, accelerating faster and faster but never passing. "I hate her!" he shouted. _"Do you understand that?"_ But the spotlight didn't blink.

Another pair of headlights and Hyde was trapped. Maybe it was Sarah Carmel's car. Maybe she would understand the feeling of "no way out." Maybe she too was hiding from that distant speck.

Hyde didn't duck the approaching headlights. They slowed. They stopped.

It was Baylee. And her friend was in the front seat.

* * *

Morning arrived without dream or nightmare, but morning was afternoon and Hyde awoke between them both; Baylee nude from head to toe, and Jank down to her underwear.

He slid his arms from beneath the girls, then sat up and massaged the sickness from his cheeks.

He didn't remember when or how, but in black permanent marker—upside down from wrist to elbow— _"U R MY EVERYTHING."_

Signed, _"Baylee."_

* * *

The room smelled like lubricated sex and dying Chinese food, half eaten on the table by the blouse-shaded lamp illuminating lace patterns across the wall. Bed sheets crisscrossed the naked mattress like discarded togas.

The bathroom tile was slick with puddles from yesterday's bubble bath and showers with open curtains.

Pastel bras, panties, pink tees, and loose jewelry were meticulously sorted from Hyde's dirty clothes which he checked for stains, refolded and organized back into his suitcase cubes.

Scratch marks down his back, bite marks on his chest; Baylee wasn't careful, but he had to be.

The curtains blocked the sun's reminder of passing time, but the bedside clock ruined his false-perception of infinity whenever he glanced at its digital display.

Girl in his arms, fully clothed for the first time today, Hyde spent these moments snapping mental photographs to preserve the experience. Fine, white fuzz on her open shoulder, invisible to everyone but him, loose tank-top with a fallen strap. _Snap. This could be the last time they touched;_ her toes under his pant leg, grazing his shin with clipped and painted nails. _Snap._ How could he make this last? Baylee's cheekbone; eyes turned down in his arm. Her earring; metal links in a diamond shape, slack below her lobe. _Snap._

He would't take these moments for granted.

* * *

What he said was, "Please be safe."

What he meant was, "Don't be stupid."

Baylee didn't just hug him, she jumped him, wrapped her legs around his waist and slobbered him a necklace of goodbye kisses. "I'll be safe," she said. "I promise."

Hyde watched her reflection shrink in his rearview mirror through a world-bending glaze of tears. His pain clouded her figure; a puddly silhouette against kaleidoscopic downtown lights. He wiped his eyes and watched her until the last possible moment. The second she disappeared from view, his phone buzzed.

" _my last text 2 u: check ur glove box. xo"_

Hyde didn't open it, but let the excitement linger as he batted wet lashes and searched for an empty lot. When the car was parked, he opened the glove compartment and found a plastic pipe, rainbow box of salvia, dime-bag of weed, and note: " _Whether or not the future brings us together, you'll need these._ _Straighten things out on your end and we'll do it again soon. (ps. I love you.)"_

* * *

"Hydey? That you?"

"Give me a sec." Hyde dropped his suitcase by the front door and dashed into the study with laptop in hand. _"ERROR: 0086428408456"_ was already waiting when he opened the screen. He hit "cancel" and opened Baylee's chat.

She was online.

**HWelectronics:** _bay? are you there?_

No reply.

**HWelectronics:** _please respond... i can't do this, sweetie. i'll go crazy._

"Hey there! Good trip?" Kayla stood between the French doors. She couldn't see the monitor so he kept typing.

"Good. Yeah. Give me another minute. Finishing up a few loose ends."

"I made a welcome-home dinner. Scallops and—"

"Sounds good, baby. I'll be right out."

"Take your time. The scallops won't go anywhere!"

**HWelectronics:** _damnit, bay don't do this!!!! at least tell me you'll wait for me! tell me you won't be with other guys or it'll drive me crazy._

No reply.

**HWelectronics:** _i need to go, sweet girl. text me tonight... please. i love you._

Dinner began as a polite charade with a "Do you love me?" _(If I loved you I would say it!)_ and a "Yes, dear I love you." Kayla showed her affection with food, _but Hyde didn't care about food_. Scallops were just scallops. He needed quality time, not puzzles and phone-dates with the in-laws. He longed for praise and encouragement for his work, not haircuts. And he needed to be touched without being asked! "Is this okay?" or "Do you want to do it?" or "Are you sure?" He needed love without expectation; without wondering if a prank might drive her mad. All the superficial reasons for _Bayyyyylee_ were thrown away; her eyes, breasts, that magic number of _nineteen_ became irrelevant as he longed for that moment where everything in her extroverted life faded and he— _Hyde_ —consumed her attention; that soft red corner beside her pulse where friends, classes and intense life experiences fell to the wayside _for him._

Scallops. Yum. Now she was talking about repainting the bedroom a new shade of beige and he yearned for a real conversation. Every time he spoke her name it was a conscious effort to begin with "Kay" instead of "Bay". _Would that ever get easier?_

She tried to be sweet. She told him he could help decide the color. But his mind was gone. He considered dropping hints; leaving out a suggestive email, a text or a note for her to stumble upon; a starting point, a leaping tidbit that would commence the excruciating beginning to a blissful end.

He locked the bathroom door. Steam rose from the shower curtain and stuck to the mirror. He stripped off his clothes and gladly accepted the scolding water. His finger traced the bite mark above his left nipple. If Baylee was merely _sex_ , the bruise would be a mark of shame or guilt. If they were just nail scratches down his back, burning in the hot water, he wouldn't be considering what he was considering.

Those eyes... and that crescent beneath her cheek that framed her smile; a single pimple on her chin ("I wish I could be a woman for you.") now a detail that made the pain even harder to accept. All the effort to "not take things for granted" only made it harder. _Snap._

Hyde considered himself a tolerant person. _I accept gay people because they can't help it. I accept fat people. It's not their fault they like food! So how is it my fault that I don't love my wife anymore? If they shouldn't feel guilty, then I shouldn't feel guilty. It's who. I. Am._

No soap, no shampoo, just water. _Please,_ he prayed to the furnace gods, _don't run out of hot water._ Gasping, gaping silent screams until the water turned cold, forcing him to the mirror to smile and stretch his face. Eyes: red instead of white. Still green-grey in the middle, but exhausted, puffed, no tears, _maybe she'll see. Maybe she'll see the pain in my eyes and say, "I understand now. I'm okay with it. I'm strong. I can leave," and kiss me one last time and leave._

He squeegeed a circle on the mirror. He looked at himself, the bottom-of-the-barrel of mankind—a step above child molester— _the man who leaves his wife_. The bad guy in romance movies. Asshole, cock, sinner, good riddance! She's better off with you! And the audience cheers.

_This is forever,_ he remembered again. _Kayla is forever unless lucky mis-fortune smiles; unless she cheats and confesses and gives me a reason to cry,_ _"You hurt me! I'm leaving!"_ The notion of "forever" became unbearable when coupled with mental images snapped earlier today.

Hyde snuck into bed and Kayla joined. If she came on to him, he would refuse. He wouldn't cheat.

She laid there, dead in his arms. No longer a person; no thoughts, no desires... Her breathing switched from her mouth to her nose.

There was no guilt. _There was simply no guilt._

_What about the billion-dollar question, Hyde? If you love Baylee as much as you say, why not leave Kayla?_ It wasn't that easy. Consider William: Will would never know his true feelings! He'd never know the intricacies of his relationship with Kayla; how they met, how she treated him, how he felt inside... William would never know his love for Baylee; _how different it felt_. All Will would know is that Hyde left his adorable wife after five years of marriage. Church would be different. His job would be different. His home-life would be different. Happiness and freedom and true love were great ideals, but how do those compare to the reality of security and consistency? A life without rocking the boat? A life inside plastic rails?

Baylee was his love. Baylee was his escape from conformity.

Baylee was his Theater.

And that's where Hyde went. He shied from his wife and tiptoed downstairs, pulled his jacket over his nightshirt, reached under the passenger seat of his car for Baylee's gift, and stole into the night.

The stage was naked without its curtain. He didn't have the strength to leap up the front, so he walked up the side steps and into the stagnant blue glow of security lights. Center stage was open, serene, the ideal place to seek answers. The eight-hundred-forty empty seats had the curious ability to make him feel alone and surrounded at the same time.

Indian-style seemed appropriate, dead center facing the audience of chairs, grass, and homes. He removed the pipe and the box of salvia, then scanned the instructions on back. _"Always have a sober sitter present."_

Not tonight.

" _Hold for thirty seconds."_

Okay.

A cramp in his lower jaw reminded him of the silent shower screams (or from going down earlier that week?) and he repeated the motion to rid the pain.

The pipe was difficult to pack, partly because the salvia grains were smaller than he anticipated, partly because his hands were trembling. His jacket still held a transparent green Bic. He sparked it and held against the chamber of the pipe until the grains were lit.

He smeared his tongue across his lower lip and fingered the pipe to his lips like a joint. He pulled the substance into his lungs in a slow, even drag, then counted "Mississippis" to thirty.

Nothing. The instructions suggested as many hits until the experience began or until the salvia was used up, so Hyde hit the pipe again. Thirty more Mississippi's and

The theater was no longer the enemy. Whatever poltergeist lived here was exorcised and Hyde caressed its wooden floor like the back of an elephant. His legs became so enamored with the stage that they melded with it. They became the floor—one seamless plank at a time—until there was no more Hyde; maybe never was a Hyde; just one Hyde, now part of the stage like a decomposing body becomes the trees.

The audience was there now. The chairs stayed chairs, but also became people; the forms of people, every seat, black, plastic people watching the theater consume the man until he became one of them.

Kayla was there, not made of wood but made of rope; head to tow with knots for elbows and unraveled strands of tightly curled hair, eating dinner at their dining-room table with the faceless Hyde on the other end. A child in the middle. The future. Ten years. And the stage was happy. Content. The stage knew that life happens whether you're sad or not.

Another Kayla-made-of-rope was in their home (in their bed) with another man. But the man was real, human—not the stage like Hyde—and naked with Kay, her legs twisting around his neck as he became her. There was no pain in wooden-Hyde; no jealousy standing in the bedroom doorway as the man became rope and intertwined with Hyde's wife.

Hyde was happy for her; he smiled for Kayla and her newfound lover.

On the same plane of time there was Baylee, nude and straddling him in a hotel bed. Baylee was flesh but Hyde was still wood and Kayla was still rope and she opened the door and saw them. He was relieved when his wife finally discovered the truth. Baylee didn't look up but continued her thrusting. Pink rope burns on her thighs, she became the stage and melded with Hyde as one malleable form.

Hyde rapped a splintered hand on the front door of his home. No answer, so he entered and Kayla was not made of rope, but of black metal and silver links like the catwalk. Catwalk-Kayla was dead in the center of their living room. Sprawled, wire hair snaked every direction across scattered puzzle pieces and Hyde stiffened and cried wet tears that warped his face where they ran, leaving welts like worms down his face.

The scenes and emotions played all at once with no confusion or need for distinction between each existence. Hyde understood everything and

Woke up in bed. His _real_ bed with satin sheets and a lump of Kayla beside him. He sat up and pressed his fingers into his cheeks. He yawned a human yawn and tried to remember his dream but couldn't.

There was, however, something new inside him; some divine enlightenment, not like William's prophecy, but simpler. It was the calming assurance that Baylee was _good_. That he was never meant to stay with Kayla. That God had seen the struggle placed on his heart and smiled at his indecisiveness.

It was God's will for Hyde and Baylee to be together.

Hyde lingered in the tranquility of this new pact. His body relaxed, settled into place, then he pushed his hands into the mattress and shifted his legs to the side of the bed without waking Kay. He stretched his arms and nestled his toes in the carpet, then massaged the balls of his heels into the coarse fibers. Standing was cumbersome, not because of his exhaustion, but because his spine and joints seemed to be filled with rubber cement instead of cartilage. He blindly plodded to the bathroom, grasped the brass handle, and opened the door to the midnight sky and the plastic audience made of chairs. He returned to the center of the stage and laid down until he woke up, shivering in a puddle of his own saliva.

The memory of the experience was gone, but the message was clear and the more Hyde repeated it, the more it warmed him from his head to his fingers to his toes: _Baylee was his soulmate. Baylee was his soulmate. Baylee was his soulmate._

**TEN - Young Love (Reprise)**

June

William Carmel's piano didn't belong in that house anymore. Despite the missing hydraulic lift and dysfunctional hatch, the instrument would now be the heart of his new home.

Piano, truck, and maestro sat on the forest trail facing the steep angle of the paved hill. William sat on the ledge of Betty's bed. Broken columns of sun burned through the treetop canopy, illuminating streaks of bugs and particles and falling into morphing lacework patterns across his hands and the lid of the grand piano. The legless instrument balanced at an angle on the ledge of the truck, strapped to the back with rope, twine, and a neon-orange ratchet strap, straining Betty's shocks until her belly nearly touched her tires. The craftsmanship of fake-ivory keys, cherry wood, and floral details were once pristine heirlooms to be coddled and shined, but yesterday, William tossed the holy contraption on Betty's back with the help of seven reluctant Brandywine locals, then hauled it over speed bumps, gravel roads, and down Boulevard. If the instrument fell out of tune in the trip from home to stage, so be it. Everything was a little out of tune these days.

Janie wore loose work jeans, a black and silver Sparkle Motion tee, and sneakers stained yellow from grass and mud. She stood on Betty's open tailgate in a flat-footed arabesque penchée, right leg aimed at the sun, back parallel to the ground and stable enough to balance a house of cards. Petite arms were extended delicately like a marble statue of a goddess. Her head hung toward the ground like a limp marionette, but her eyes were focused on Will's. "Play it for me," she said.

William stiffened his back—giving him two extra inches of stature—and began the opening fragment of his new song on the in-transit piano. His left fingers could only create two-note bass chords, but his right hand worked the high notes into a legato requiem that set a new rhythm for the forest.

Janie slid from her static pose into a series of graceful movements. Overhead branches parted at the perfect moment to create a sunbeam spotlight, furthering the comparison of Janie to a god.

The song was brief. When William stopped, Janie plopped on the piano lid and dropped her sneakers on the keys with a clamor of bass. "I'm not learning a new dance for next week."

"It won't be finished," he said. "I'm writing it for nationals. You'll do your Swan Lake here, and this song in Chicago."

"Can I switch songs like that?"

"I'll talk to Pauline."

"And the choreography?"

"We'll work on it together. Do you like it?"

"It's creepy."

"But you like it?"

"It's creepy, but yeah Dad, it's gorgeous. You have time to finish before July?"

"It's my first priority."

Janie leaned back on her elbows. "Don't you have bigger priorities?"

He raised his eyebrows, bushier than usual after six months without his preening companion. "You need to stop worrying about your old man. My only three priorities are my daughter, this stage and your mother. This song and your ballet cover all three."

Janie slid her elbows back, leaving a pair of clean streaks through the fresh coat of natural dust. She tilted her head and looked at the road upside-down. "Are we doing this tonight?"

"I don't trust the two of us against that incline. I'll toss a tarp over the truck and the Sparkle Motion crew can help on Friday. How's that boy?"

"He's fine." Janie never expounded on her relationship with Chase, and Will rarely prodded her. "Hyde'll be home soon."

William bumped Janie's feet from the keys and lowered the cover. He twisted his body one leg at a time over Betty's ledge and dropped to the path. "You know what to do if it happens."

Janie hopped off the piano, stepped over the straps and fell into her father's arms.

William lifted her, twirled her, then released her to the ground.

"Will you be home for dinner?" she asked.

He considered the approaching night, then fished out his wallet and gave her a twenty. "Order a pizza—the usual—and save me a slice."

She nodded, smiled, then turned and jogged back to the house, now a fully human fixture with its spiffy new exterior of tan siding, burgundy shutters, plastic porch rails, and nifty bushes like upside-down Christmas tree ornaments. A pebbled cement walkway now lead from the driveway to the porch, passing through a garden of roses and weeds and rolling synthetic bulges of wood chips. The grass was freshly seeded and Challo's divot was leveled with a patch of too-green sod. A white fence extended from the front of the house and created a perfect, arbitrary perimeter. The transformation was a professional job, but looked to Will like a hooker in a wedding dress.

Thanks to the new conformity and the debt from the home-equity loan, William's mortal side had become a bit more human.

But now it was over. After thirty years of dreading the defilement of his home, Will showed Jaxon the changes and Silverman & Binder officially approved the remodel.

Will relaxed his shoulder against Betty's door and watched Janie disappear between the stables and hill. She was his angel. Not "angel" in the generic usage that dads toss around as a cheap pet name; Janie was his literal archangel. She was his right-hand servant keeping watch over humanity and reporting their sins. Her dedication was remarkable.

Hyde Whitaker—husband of Kayla Reid and boyfriend to lilapricot'93—awoke in William a new breed of anger. It was a hot anger like electric stove coils around his heart, slowly changing color from dark grey to brilliant orange. Most of all, it was a patient anger, perhaps tied to William's changing mindset. Even with the initial prank, the countless lies, the purposeful destruction of Will's marriage, the prank's hundred ramifications including three lost fingers and millions of dollars, his infidelity to Kayla, the appropriation of Will's story as his own _(blaspheme!)_... even with all of Hyde's hatred and manipulation and disloyalty, William patiently awaited a change in the man's heart as the coils grew hotter around his own.

His molars grated behind his tongue. His cheeks pulled back to a thin smile. He yanked the blue tarpaulin from the backseat of Betty's cab, spread it out, tossed it over the piano and wedged the corners between the truck and instrument. He made certain the cover was secure by tugging the edge, then stepped back into the brush to admire his work.

Hyde deserved free will like all humans. He made the decision to cheat on Kayla, but it wasn't too late to turn back. The last month of apricot-chats consisted of benign talk about school and work, and when Hyde mentioned anything about their illicit relationship, Baylee signed off and ignored him for several chain-smoking days.

The girl was waiting for a proclamation. She wanted divorce.

If Hyde abused the free will that William bestowed and chose Baylee over the vows to his wife, the coils would snap and William would be forced to intervene.

In the meantime, the theater was waking from seven months of dormancy. William singlehandedly fought the dilapidation day and night and prepared the beast for Pauline Woodstock and her regional competition.

He opened the passenger door, popped the glovebox, then removed a stick of deodorant, a tube of toothpaste, and a stack of notecards. He slammed and locked Betty's door, pocketed the keys, toiletries, and cards, then started up the hill.

* * *

(5, 6, 7, 8!)

It was three days after their actual anniversary. Chase spent the morning unloading the truck, setting up the fiberglass set, and fighting beautiful daydreams about the weekend's possibilities.

Mr. Carmel had asked the crew to haul his busted piano from the forest driveway to the stage. The job was relatively simple with eight men; they loaded the instrument on the company truck, backed up to the loading dock, then dumped it in the right wing of the stage with the legs on the lid.

Chase saw Janie after moving the piano, but their reunion consisted of a quick kiss, a hug, and, "We'll talk on the break." She was a student teacher now, and Chase understood her commitment to her dancers. It was eleven months since the last time they touched, but they'd make up for lost time this weekend.

The day began poorly when a senior from Kayla's Studio landed on her knee instead of her foot and ran off stage into Chase's arms. He pulled up a chair, cracked an icepack from his first-aid kit, and rushed outside to grab her a bottled water from the crew's snack tent.

Now a powwow of Native Americans had the stage. They jumped, twirled, and stumbled to a savage-urban beat while Chase bobbed his head and scanned his setlist for the remainder of the senior small groups. His sheet—usually clean and orderly—was unreadable with chicken-scratch X's, arrows, and add-ins scrawled in kindergarten penmanship. The hieroglyphics indicated that the final dance of the set was "Girl's Just Wanna Have Fun" from Kayla's Dance Studio.

Chase sucked on the end of his pen and surveyed the backstage action. He saw Miss Alice with arms crossed watching her boys mutilate their dance... but Kayla's girls weren't backstage.

Pauline hated gaps in her show. It was Chase's job to maintain the program's flow by assuring the teachers and dancers were ready at their scheduled time. This was only the first set of the first day, and if Kayla didn't show, he would fall behind.

A black bowler hat sat crooked atop Miss Alice's head, mirroring her tattoo-counterpart's fading ensemble. "Focus Shiloh! Watch your footing!" Her gauchos twirled around her ankles as she danced the choreography with exaggerated moves so the weaker boys could follow along. Sideline assistance was not forbidden by the judges, but when the dancers focused on the wings instead of the audience, points were lost.

Janie never patronized her students in that way. "If they don't know the routine by the time they get on stage, they're not getting help from me," she once said.

"It's ridiculous," said a voice behind Chase.

He turned around to find Miss Kayla's husband watching the dance with his thumbs in his jeans. "Those guys are wearing makeup and spandex, yet in this moment, they're cooler than I'll ever be."

Chase nodded. "Tell me about it."

Though he disliked gossip, Chase had a train-wreck interest in the drama that played out between Mr. Whitaker and Mr. Carmel last fall. As Janie gathered clues about the mysterious speaker, she used Chase to bounce around ideas during late-night phone dates. He felt guilty for his fascination when the shenanigans led to the separation of Janie's parents.

Although the drama had shifted away from Mr. Whitaker after Mrs. Carmel left, Janie was still concerned with Chase's level of privileged understanding. Before he left for Michigan, she made him promise that he'd never let her dad find out that he knew the truth about the speakers. Even more imperative, Mr. Whitaker could never know that _Mr. Carmel_ knew the truth.

Chase assured his girlfriend that he wouldn't even speak to the people involved, much less ruin their lives with "privileged understanding." The whole Whitaker-Carmel affair was over now anyway with no hard feelings or talk of retaliation. Chase just liked the fact that Janie confided in _him_ more than her father.

_(5, 6, 7, 8!)_ he remembered the impending gap in the show and his mind dialed into work mode. "Have you seen your wife?" he asked Mr. Whitaker. "Her girls are on stage in less than a minute."

"Just got off work. Haven't seen 'em."

"Crap." Chase stepped to the podium and grabbed his phone. "April May? I'm missing the last dance. Hold the music."

April responded with her best valley girl impression, _"Get it!"_

He slammed the phone and turned back to Hyde. "Call your wife and tell her we need her kids backstage."

"Yes, sir!"

Chase abandoned his post and dashed through the frump of mothers, past the legless piano, hopscotched costumes and props to the back door, opened it, and winced in the afternoon sunlight and Cyndi Lauper's overplayed tune. The missing dancers were shimmying in pink leotards on the grass below the loading dock. Janie commanded her students by clapping to the fuzzy beat of the portable boombox.

Before he could call to her, Chase saw Janie's dad sitting on the yellow-painted ledge of the dock, feet dangling, dressed in his usual blazer—green today instead of black—and sucking the salt from a clump of concession-stand sunflower seeds. The man's beard was a torn tuft of yeti fur, matted, knotted and the color of a muddy cinderblock.

Chase adjusted the collar of his Sparkle Motion Polo and hiked up his black jeans. He looked at Janie, then back to Mr. Carmel who was studying him now with piercing grey eyes. The man used his thumb and forefinger to clean the black shells (like lizard scales, Chase thought) from his teeth. It was the first time Chase saw Mr. Carmel since dating Janie, and if it wasn't for Pauline's imminent fury, he would have reintroduced himself right then and there. He nodded instead, but the man coldly turned his attention to the dancers. _Crap._

"Miss Janie!" Chase finally shouted.

"Run it again, ladies!" she said and twirled her hand in the air. She jogged across the grass and stopped at the base of the dock. Her nose was level with Chase's feet; one hand on her hip and one hand blocking the sun from her eyes. "Are the Indians offstage yet?"

"Just finished. We're waiting on you." This new dynamic was odd.

"Noah can't dance so I'm re-choreographing the routine. Give me five."

Chase looked to the left of the dancers and noticed the girl with the busted knee. She was confined to a folding chair, the icepack still on her leg, watching her friends dance without her. "Baby," Chase said, "I can't have a five minute gap in the show."

Janie glanced at her father, twenty feet away, then back up to Chase. "There's nothing you can do?"

(Chase wanted to leap to the ground, grab his girlfriend's cheeks and kiss her on the lips; _he missed her more in this moment than ever before_.) "Of course," he said. "I'll talk to Pauline."

"No," Janie said before he could leave. "I don't want you to get in trouble."

"Are you sure they're ready?"

"I guess we'll find out."

Within a minute, Chase was leading the girls up the loading dock and through the door with Janie in the rear assuring no one wandered off.

The stage was empty except for Hyde. The audience—roughly a hundred people today—was becoming audibly restless in the sun.

"Kayla's on her way," Hyde said as Chase passed.

"Already got the girls. Wasn't her fault." He snatched his phone. "April? Go go go."

"Alrighty, Mr. Manager." April May's voice transferred from the phone receiver to the theater speakers: "Next up we have senior recreational open. Please welcome 'Little Laupers' performing 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.'"

Janie's dancers scrambled to find their place in the wings. The music began _(5, 6, 7, 8),_ the girls clamored on stage.

Miss Kayla galloped inside—more composed than Chase expected—and wiped a pearl of sweat from her forehead. "Looks like you found my ladies," she said and slid an arm around her husband.

"Maybe Pauline didn't notice," Chase said and exhaled relief.

Janie ignored the mess on stage and addressed Kayla. "Noah's still hurt. I did my best."

"They'll do fine," Miss Kayla replied.

Several months ago, Janie mentioned that Kayla and Mr. Whitaker were having marital problems. Now—as Hyde whispered a smiling secret in his wife's ear—Chase assumed they had worked through their issues. He'd get the full scoop tonight.

Janie nestled in the nook of his arm, mirroring the adult's lovebird stance. "Haven't seen you in a while, Mr. Whitaker," she said. "You're always cooped up in your study."

"You're lucky," he said.

"Why is that?"

"You'll never get to experience the joys of a nine-to-five job with late-night paperwork. The Carmels are too talented for all that."

Chase wished Janie would spend her moment of freedom with _him_ instead of making small talk with the neighbors.

Noah waddled backstage, hunched over to hold the icepack on her knee, dressed like a normal sixteen-year-old girl instead of a "Little Lauper." Chase eyed the girl as she made her way to the sideline, just out of the judges line-of-sight. She held the black curtain for support and watched her team struggle with the modified routine. To the untrained eye, Noah's body was as ridged as her expression, but Chase noticed the minuscule twitches in her calves, fingers and neck as the dancer performed the routine in her head and imagined herself on stage.

Mr. Carmel infiltrated the backstage with a black duffle in hand.

Janie pulled away from Chase and trotted to her dad.

Kayla rolled her eyes and Chase excused himself from the awkward moment, pretending to address some important business back at his podium, but his eyes never left Janie and her father.

She tugged his blazer and he bent to her level. She spoke in his ear and he laughed. He handed her the black bag, fixed a curled hair on her stiff bun, then backed into the shadows beside his broken piano.

_(5, 6, 7, 8)_ The girls danced offstage and collapsed into hugs with Noah crumpled in the center. Miss Kayla released her grip on Mr. Whitaker and congratulated her girls.

April May's spunky voice concluded the set. "Ladies and gentlemen, that lovely dance marks the end of our junior and senior small groups! We'll be taking a short break, then we'll start back up with solos!"

Janie approached the podium, dropped her bag, rummaged through it, and whispered, "Count to thirty, then follow me to the left-wing."

"What?"

"Wait thirty seconds then follow me." She removed a cream tutu from the duffle, walked past her dancers, and disappeared behind the purple set.

Something was different. He felt it weeks ago. _A quiet sense of detachment._

There were little things during their phone dates. Sometimes Janie would go to bed earlier than usual even if her voice didn't seem sleepy. When they did talk late, she seemed preoccupied. She promised to text him on several occasions... but then she forgot. Chase wasn't a needy boyfriend; it was the break in routine that worried him.

Today's reunion should have dispelled the fear, but the afternoon was only confirming his hidden dread.

Exactly thirty seconds after Janie walked away, Chase unglued the clipboard from his hand and made his way backstage (avoiding Mr. Carmel's emanation like one might pass a black cat). Behind the set, he trailed his hand against the rippled black backdrop and hopped a series of angled wooden jacks bracing the fiberglass. Just as he was about to emerge on the other side, a hand shot from a broken seam in the drapery, grabbed his belt, and jerked him into the dark fabric folds.

It was Janie. When Chase was safely inside the makeshift tent, she released her grip on his waist and worked the band of her tights beneath her t-shirt. "Don't step on the tutu," she whispered.

"You're changing?" he asked.

"My ballet starts in ten. Did you stop reading your set-list, Mr. Stage Manager?" She turned from Chase and peeled off the purple cotton tee to reveal her ironed back and crisscross sports bra. "Hand me the leotard?"

"It's dark. Where—"

"On the ground."

He knelt down and fumbled the polished cement. When he stood—leotard in hand—Janie's back was bare. He draped the uniform over her shoulder. "I wish you had more dances," he said.

"One is enough."

Even in the darkness of the fort, Chase found enough light to behold Janie's taut skin across her vertebrae as she stepped—one mesh stocking at a time—into the suit. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"What? Why?"

"You sound far away."

She snapped the leotard straps against her shoulders, flexed and stretched into the molded costume, then turned back to Chase. "My mom's in the audience. She wanted to see me dance so she gave Dad strict orders to stay backstage. They haven't seen each other since December. She hasn't filed for divorce yet, but Dad's worried. He tries not to show it, but—"

"We talked for an hour last night. Why didn't you tell me this on the phone?"

"I help Dad with the theater, I help Kayla with routines, I assure and reassure my mom that I'm safe and happy, and I practice every waking moment in between. Things need to go well today so Mom'll see how far he's come. With a little more work, I'll finally pull Dad out of this—"

"Shh. I know you're stressed." Chase stooped again and found the tutu between Janie's bare feet. He took the center loop in his hands and raised the mesh up her ankles, calves, thighs and waist. "I love you," he said and touched her chin to tame her scattered mind. "I want you to deal with this however you need to, and I'll be right here when you need me."

"Shit," she said, breaking the moment. "I forgot my makeup..."

"Forget the makeup. Forget the scar. You're more beautiful today than you've ever been."

"Thanks."

"I made a deal with Hank this morning. He'll cover for me if I'm not in my room. If your dad is still sleeping at the stage, we can be together all night."

"Okay," she said.

Chase expected more of a reaction. For weeks they devised ways to spend the night together. He sighed. "I'll take your clothes. You push the bad thoughts out of your head, get on that stage, and do what you love."

She pecked his cheek. "Give me another thirty seconds before you come out, kay? I love you." She spiraled around Chase (being careful not to smush her tutu against him) then poked her head through the seam, looked both ways, and pattered away.

The brief sliver of daylight closed across Chase's cheek as the curtains drifted shut. For thirty long seconds, he was left in the dark to contemplate what the hell was going on.

_Happy anniversary,_ he thought.

* * *

Janie winced.

"Does that hurt?"

"It's okay."

Chase eased his hold on her foot. "Better?"

"Mmm."

The sock clung to her ankle as he bunched the tube toward her heel, leaving a trail of purple and blue fuzz on her imprinted skin. Janie glanced at her open laptop for the hundredth time, then draped her forearm over her eyes and nestled the back of her head into the pillow. Chase was confused about the computer's NASCAR wallpaper, but didn't ask.

The first day of work was over. Janie secured the Best in Category award for her outstanding Swan Lake ballet, Miss Kayla's Dance Studio received a Best in Category award for "Material Girl" (which Janie choreographed), Mr. Carmel thanked the Sparkle Motion crew for a successful first day, and Hank smirked and winked as Chase ducked out the hotel-room door.

A half-mile midnight jog brought him to the fluffy pink core of his girlfriend's home life. He recognized certain aspects of her room from photos; most familiar was the headboard's vertical iron bars and their corresponding shadows on the pink wall. How surreal to see them in person after watching them frame Janie's face during their nightly webcam sessions.

He planned on presenting her with the anniversary gift in his pocket, but when they settled into opposite ends of the bed and she asked for a foot massage, he put off the gift for the fourth time.

The sock smelled like girl-sweat—a very different smell from boy-sweat—and Chase wondered if pheromones were real. He pulled her sock from the tip of her foot and tossed it to the floor with the other dirty clothes. She scrunched and fanned her toes, loosening the bandage that gripped all five knuckles. Chase pinched the bandaid's flap near her baby toe and delicately peeled off the sticker like shelling a hardboiled egg.

He rolled down the other sock but the cotton snagged the nail of her big toe. It was blood-purple and hinged at the cuticle.

She winced again. "I know it's gross."

He unhooked the sock from its snare, threw it away, then wiggled the nail to test its hold. "It'll feel better if I pull it off," he said.

"Do it."

"How was your mom today?"

"On edge."

He folded the nail back until it touched the knuckle. "Was she proud of you?"

"I tried to convince her to talk to Dad. Told her how well he was doing."

"She wouldn't see him?" Chase creased the nail at the base and wobbled it back and forth.

"She's looking for a place of her own. Said I have to move in with her after the Chicago nationals."

"I think that's a good thing."

"No. Not yet."

Chase continued his work on the toe, but looked to the window, through the slats of blinds, and at the theater. "What does he do up there at night?"

"He's fixing it up."

"But the show started today."

"He brought his typewriter. Maybe he's working."

"He can't work here?"

Janie sat up so quickly that Chase thought he hurt her, but she grabbed the laptop instead, laid back down, and set it on her stomach.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Just rip the damn thing off."

Chase held the nail perpendicular to the toe and snapped it hard across the crease. Janie didn't flinch.

"What should I do with it?"

She extended her hand from behind the open screen and Chase placed the flake in her palm. She dropped it in an empty soda can and went back to work.

"Can you put the computer down for two seconds? I miss you."

Puppy eyes peeked over the laptop lid. "Don't be mad."

"What's so important?"

She slid the computer back to the bed with the screen facing the wall. "I've been a bitch, I know."

"Don't ever say that."

She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Thank you for fixing my toe."

"We waited a year for this night. I miss you so much that my heart feels sick, and I don't want to waste time playing computer games." He tried to push Janie's midsection away so he could see her face, but she strengthened her embrace and nuzzled her nose in his neck.

"I'm sorry, Chase." Her vocal cords tickled his shoulder with her first genuine words.

"It's three days late, but I have an anniversary present for you." Their cheeks pressed; her crimped flesh grazed his.

"I didn't get you anything," she said. Her sincerity calmed his concern.

"It isn't much; just a note." He squirmed an arm free from the hug and found the folded card in the pocket of his black cargos.

Janie unhooked her arms but kept her body close. Chase gave her the note. The square unfolded in her hands like an origami crane.

"It's a list of a hundred things I love about you."

She fell back against the headboard and angled the pages to the lamp's amber light.

He watched her smile. He watched her fingers squeeze wrinkles in her nightshirt.

" _#1 I love watching you dance. It's obvious and unoriginal, but that's why it's number one. You're pretty in person, but your beauty is infinite on stage."_

"#7 I love that you protect me. Even though I'm the boy, sometimes it's nice to have a lioness as a girlfriend."

"#16 I love that you know every embarrassing thing about me. If you tell anyone, I'll kill you! (Just kidding.)"

"#19 I love that we never let the distance keep us apart."
It happened in a split second, but changed everything. Janie's eyes darted from the note to the laptop. When they settled back on the note, her previous transfixion was replaced by a dancer's plastic smile. Chase nearly grabbed the laptop and slammed the lid.

"This is amazing," she said and set the papers down beside the soda can.

"You're still on the first page."

"You're so sweet, Chase. I can't believe you did this for me." The sincerity was gone; her words were hollow with a vacuum of starless space. "Can I finish it in a bit?"

Chase held those overplayed puppy eyes for a moment longer, then lunged forward and snatched the computer.

"No!" she yelled. "Don't bump the cursor!"

The laptop spun easily on the slick sheets and Chase used his knees to bolt it to the bed. Janie's fingers clasped the edges of the screen, but she couldn't pull without breaking the lid. "Give it to me. Please, Chase." _How quickly the sincerity returned._

A chat box covered the NASCAR background.

"What is this?" Chase asked. At first he assumed "lilapricot'93" was a secret screen name that Janie used to hide from him. But a quick scan of the typed conversation proved him wrong.

A new message popped up from "apricot."

**lilapricot'93:** _no baby, i know exactly what u mean. i keep doing the same thing but i feel it physically in my heart like im falling. that intense ache that lasts for 3 seconds then fades. i feel it in my chest every time i think of u. but u know our deal_

"Janie..." Chase said. "What is this?"

"I'll tell you everything if you give me the fricken computer."

Chase released his hold on the laptop and Janie spun it around, folded her legs, and pushed a button. He scooted himself across the bed until his knee touched hers. Two more messages were displayed below the previous.

**HWelectronics:** _i went to visit her at work today..._

**lilapricot'93:** _y???_

"It's Hyde," Janie said.

"Who's the—"

"Her name's Baylee. She's five years older than me and goes to college in Grand Rapids."

"Why are you—"

"It makes Dad feel better. Mr. Whitaker's a bad person."

"This is why he bought you a new laptop? To spy on your neighbors? You said it was to video chat with me."

"You know what he did to us."

A new message:

**HWelectronics:** _i went to the stage where she was working and i stood beside her and i smiled. then i talked to people with that smile. i imagined the rest of my life with that smile and it made me sick. i don't fit with her, bay. i never did. our relationship is like pieces from two different puzzles. you and i aren't like that. we're good together._

"How long have you been doing this?" Chase asked.

"Maybe a month."

"You lied to me."

"I didn't want this ruin our night but..."

**lilapricot'93:** _u told me all this before_

"...but he's about to do it."

"Do what?"

"He's about to tell Baylee he'll leave Kayla."

"That's not your business! Close the computer!"

"It's almost over. I need to know what he says. Do _not_ touch my laptop."

The new intensity in Janie's voice frightened Chase. Spying was wrong and probably illegal, but he didn't have the whole story and had to give his girlfriend the benefit of a doubt.

"Let me finish this," she said. "He'll go to bed soon and we can talk all night. Then everything will make sense and you'll love me again."

Chase nodded and scratched her back. Without another word, the couple watched the digital drama unfold.

**HWelectronics:** _you're not the safe path, bay. you'll change everything. but i'm starting not to care. my stores, my house, my friends... everything in my life... it's all irrelevant without you._

**lilapricot'93:** _what r u saying?_

**HWelectronics:** _i need to ask you something and you're not going to like it._

**lilapricot'93:** _i already know_

**HWelectronics:** _you do?_

**lilapricot'93:** _i know that i worry u. i know you need me to change before you can commit_

**HWelectronics:** _i don't want you to be a different person..._

**lilapricot'93:** _u know that crazy girl who goes to frat parties? thats who i am without u. our late night convos... talking about life and love and work and school... making love until dawn... encouraging each other... thats who i am WITH u_

A full minute passed before Hyde's reply.

**HWelectronics:** _i'm getting a divorce._

Janie hit the keyboard button again and Chase was finally in a position to see which one. It was the "print screen" key and every time she pressed it, the computer captured a picture of the the display and saved it to the hard drive to view later.

**lilapricot'93:** _...please don't lead me on hyde. dont say it if u dont mean it_

**HWelectronics:** _when the sparkle motion competition is done on that stage, i'm going to tell kayla that i'm leaving._

Janie broke the silence. "I can't believe he finally did it."

"Why are you saving the conversations?"

"To show Dad."

"Will you show him this conversation?"

"Of course."

"What will he do with the information?"

"I don't know. But Hyde deserves what's coming."

"This isn't right."

"What if I cheated on you?"

Chase wanted to tell her that's exactly how he felt right now.

"Hyde ruined my parents' marriage. He made us lose our money. My dad can't type or play the piano and it's his fault."

"It's not your place—"

"Then who's is it?"

"You can't tell your dad. Delete the pictures, close your computer, and spend the weekend with me. Please, Janie."

**HWelectronics:** _bay?_

"Where is she?" Janie asked the computer.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Maybe she's typing a long reply."

Chase recalled reason number sixty-seven: _"I love your maturity. You're only fourteen, but you're wiser than any high-school senior I've ever met."_ At the time that he wrote the sentiment, Janie's maturity was balanced with a glint of girlhood youthfulness. But now he searched her motionless eyes—eyes fixated on the neighbor's affair, dilated in the dim light of the screen, awaiting another provocative response to capture and exploit—and the glint was gone.

Baylee finally responded:

**lilapricot'93:** _im here. im so sorry._

**HWelectronics:** _:( why are you sorry?_

**lilapricot'93:** _my roommate asked y i was crying_

**HWelectronics:** _why are you crying?_

**lilapricot'93:** _im very happy_

**HWelectronics:** _call me?_

**lilapricot'93:** _yeah baby... of course :')_

* * *

Chase awoke to Lady Gaga's staticy, baseless voice.

His cellphone?

Pauline's ring!

He kicked off the comforter, leaned over Janie's sleeping body and grabbed his phone from the nightstand.

She knows I'm here! Oh crap, I'm so deep! Am I late? It's only six!

"Hello?" he said.

Janie squirmed beneath him. "Mmm?" she said and he covered her mouth.

Pauline spoke with intentional poise. "Big problem, little man."

Oh crap. Oh crap!

"...and you're my sounding board."

_Phew!_ Chase cleared his throat. "What is it?"

Janie's eyes opened and Chase released his grip. She lifted her head and kissed him quietly.

"Chicago called. Looks like ol' Daisy knocked over a lantern in our venue for Nationals."

"Huh?"

"Stew Jennings called me an hour ago... you remember Stew?"

"I remember Stew."

"Apparently a janitor rubbed out his cigarette butt in a prop tree in the storeroom. Between the turpentine, cleaning supplies, wooden sets, and faulty sprinkler head, it didn't take much to blow up the whole damn room."

"Can we still dance?"

"Fire took out two dressing rooms and half of the left wing. The theater smells like smoke. He says it should be fixed in time, but can't give us a guarantee. I say there's no way to fix a mess like that in twenty-three days."

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

"I'm thinking we have a thousand dancers and no venue."

Chase knew what they were both thinking, but he wondered if it was wise to push his mother in that direction.

He looked at the crusted sleep in the wells of Janie's eyes. He thought of her new obsession with fixing her father. He thought of Mr. Whitaker's affair...

Everything stemmed from the depression of that lifeless stage.

"Ma?" he said.

"Got an idea?"

Under the covers, under her shirt, Chase brushed his fingertips over Janie's skin. "What about Mr. Carmel's theater?"

* * *

"No lights?"

"We keep the fuse off in the chorus room. I can turn it on if you—"

"Don't worry yourself, Will. Flashlight's fine. This room... it could have been beautiful."

"It's a shame."

"Looks like you've been working. Cork boards and a typewriter?"

"I like to plunk around during my down time."

"The rape article in the your Gazette reported vandalism in the basement. Looks clean to me."

"Nothin' I couldn't fix with a little hard scrubbing at four AM."

"I imagine you heard about the fire at my venue for our National Championship show."

"I felt the tension in your crew when I arrived. Then your cameraman gave me the official news. I'm sorry."

"I imagine there's a bit of excitement behind your condolence? Perhaps the word 'miracle' crossed your mind upon hearing the dreadful news?"

"I don't believe in miracles anymore, Pauline... outside the miracles we make for ourselves."

"I like you, Will. And I sense you're a man who's open to... alternative negotiations."

"'Open' is a word rarely associated with me, but I'll hear you out."

"In less than a month, several thousand dancers, teachers and families will rearrange their travel plans in the direction of a venue of my choosing. This is my favorite theater, so I thought I'd approach you first."

"I'm honored."

"I like your proximity to the town. Our guests can walk to thirty restaurants for lunch and dinner. A twenty-minute drive west and they're at the beach. Even without the curtain, this is our nicest stage."

"I'm glad you find my theater satisfactory."

"I can offer three-quarters of what I was paying Chicago, plus a considerable advance for alterations. You'll need to rent changing tents for a thousand dancers and you need to upgrade security. Nobody gets raped on Pauline's watch."

"And rain?"

"Baseball games may be canceled by the threat of lightning, but there aren't rules for outdoor dance competitions."

"We'll split any loss from storms fifty-fifty."

"Fair enough. From what you see at regionals, Sparkle Motion may resemble other competitions. But Pauline Woodstock's National Championship is a _spectacle_. Every dancer wants a Best in Category trophy from this show. I had a ballerina once, dances in the Broadway production of "Wicked." She attended our New York show last month because her daughter dances now too. She caught me at the end of the show and said that—out of her thousand awards and international acclaim—the greatest achievement of her career was the Best in Category trophy from the Sparkle Motion National Championship."

"It's amazing."

"It's Disney Land for dance. We stream the show live on the world-wide-web. We averaged thirty-thousand hits per day last year. Fifty-thousand on the final night."

"If it's spectacle you want, Mrs. Woodstock, I'll make your show a production. We'll have the accommodations to house every dancer, teacher and family member, and with our lawn seating, we'll double your expected attendance. Part of your advance will be used for promotion. Your show won't just be for the dancers; if it's everything you claim, we'll fill every last seat for all five nights."

"Then I feel confident in making my next offer."

"Oh?"

"I understand that the recent loss of your significant other has left you without motivation. I look back at a full year of sporadic shows—over seven months of down time—and I think to myself, _what a waste_. You're a shitty business owner, Will. If somebody doesn't intervene, you're gonna run your dream to the ground. I can't bare to watch profitable creativity flushed down the toilet, so I'd like to discuss the possibility of partnering with you."

"You want to—"

"Right now, I want you to consider it. Do some soul searching, and if you feel that a partnership would benefit your vision, then next month's show will be a test run. If I'm still satisfied with the outlook of such a unique endeavor, I'll buy stock in half. I'll use my skills as a proficient business woman to turn this theater around. Maybe together we can make your stage a better place to hone your skills."

"You have that much confidence in my artistic abilities?"

"Doesn't matter. I know you write and direct. So put on a play. If it's bad, we'll show it on weekdays. I covet your creative mind, Will. As much as I love dance, I'll never know the joy of choreographing my own. These tree-trunk legs keep me upright for forty-hour weekends, but they don't have a lick of rhythm. You need someone to keep you balanced on the business end; maybe I can be that person."

"Well, Miss Woodstock, I like the way you think. Consider the soul-searching complete. The Sparkle Motion National Championship will receive my full attention. When you arrive in a month, the theater will exceed your greatest expectations for a dance competition, and when the show ends without a hitch, we'll discuss an agreement for a partnership."

"You hear those taps upstairs? It takes a certain madness for two entrepreneurs to shake hands in the middle of a production."

"There's no madness here. Everything that's meant to happen does."

"I'm excited to see what you come up with."

"We're looking forward to it."

"To put credit where it's due, it was my son that convinced me to consider your theater, but his suggestion may have something to do with his infatuation with your little ballerina. He showed me a letter he wrote for their one year anniversary; a hundred things he loves about her."

"Your son slept in my daughter's bed last night."

"...Did he. Sounds like our kid's are growing up."

"It sure does."

* * *

Luckily, Chase had three duets lined up backstage when Janie disappeared in sneaking strides down the right-wing staircase. He called April May, rattled off the numbers, and told her he needed a bathroom break.

The downstairs hallway seemed perpetually damp, though there was no moisture when Chase ran his fingers along the dark-grey brick. The polished floor reinforced the illusion by reflecting gold puddles of light from a string of bare bulbs on the ceiling.

Janie glided away from Chase. Her hair—a ponytail today—bobbed in and out of the lights and produced a flickering halo effect as she passed beneath them.

_Even the music felt wet down here_ ; muffled voices and warbling bass made Chase feel like he was in a womb. The rhythmic thumps of jazz shoes covered Chase's own footsteps as he dared fifteen feet behind Janie down the empty hall.

Storage closet on his right; two changing rooms on his left. The chain of bulbs ended before Janie reached the chorus room.

Chase suddenly realized her destination and slipped into the hatch room at the very moment she knocked on the chorus-room door.

It opened immediately.

From his angle between the hinges, Chase could only see Janie's back and Mr. Carmel's left claw clasping the frame.

"You okay down here?" she asked.

"How are your students?"

"Busy. The little ones are on stage now. I can't stay."

"What do you need?"

"He did it. Last night. I would have told you sooner but there were people around."

The song ended upstairs _(5, 6, 7, 8)_ and Chase felt vulnerable in the silence. He held his breath until April May's garbled voice introduced the next number _(5, 6, 7, 8)._

"Did he mean it?" Mr. Carmel asked.

"I think so."

"Did he say when he'd tell Kayla?"

"Sometime after tomorrow."

Another pause. Chase was sick.

"You did well," Mr. Carmel said.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to work. And later we're going to talk about your night with that boy." He unclasped his hook from the trim and shut the metal door softly in Janie's face.

Chase jerked back to avoid her gaze and his heel met a bag of cement. The music wasn't enough to cover the sound of his fall.

Janie stopped, spun around, and pushed open the hatch-room door.

She stood motionless in the frame. Gold light fell from that naked bulb across her hair and shoulders. Her pupils found a sliver of light too, but her face was a shadow.

* * *

Sunday: twenty-two days to the National Championship

Standing at her bedroom window, Janie looked more like Sarah than ever before. Her hair was loose and straight. The nightgown—her mothers—molded to the emerging curves of a woman's body. She was watching the stage when William walked in. The Sparkle Motion workers were specks from this distance, but the tall set pieces were still visible as the specks toppled them and hauled them away.

"I broke up with Chase," she said.

William sat on the edge of her vanity. "It's for the best."

She didn't respond.

"Can I see the conversation?" he asked.

Janie lingered at the window a moment longer, then grabbed the computer from her pillow and handed it to her father. "It's in the same folder with the rest."

William double clicked the folder labeled "H&B." Over two-thousand icons were organized by date and time; each tiny photo represented a block of chat-room text or a bawdy screenshot from a video chat with Hyde's dick in his hand.

William read the newest conversation. Janie kept her eyes the hill.

"Interesting," he said and closed the computer. He cleared bottles of perfume from the vanity and set it down. "We have a lot of work over the next three weeks. Are you with me?"

Janie twirled a stick to collapse the blinds. "Yeah, Dad. I'm with you."

He clapped his hands together. "Excellent—"

"I loved him," she said. "I want you to know that."

William curled his upper lip and nodded. He stood from the vanity, stepped toward the door, and stopped. From his pocket, he removed a thick wad of folded paper and set it on Janie's pillow.

"What's that?" she asked. But he left without a reply.

William smiled as he descended the staircase that summer evening. He imagined Janie on her bed, legs crossed, delving into his written words.

"#0001. I love your dedication to your dancers."

"#0002. I love that you look five years old when you catch snowflakes on your tongue."

"#0003. I love the poetry you inspired on the day you were born."

Every entry was specific and unique, typed clearly amongst wrinkles and damp cola stains.

"#0051. You danced in my room when I was at my lowest. Maybe you thought I didn't care..."

"#0103. We didn't have a birthday party when you were two, but I bought you a tutu and installed a toddler-sized barre in your nursery. You were always so talented."

William hugged two paper bags and opened the foyer door with his knee. One bag held two-liters of caffeine, cinnamon gum, sunflower seeds, a can of peaches, and eight cans of tuna with a loaf of white bread resting on top. The second bag held a ream of paper, black and blue pens, and more stacks of notecards tied together with rubber bands. His balance never stumbled despite the drag of the heavy bags, but he planted each foot firmly in the hill until he arrived home.

"#0208. I see your grandmother in your dimple. I miss her more every day. Your smile helps me remember."

"#0362. When you were a baby, you cried in church every Sunday. You wiggled and giggled throughout the songs, but screamed big blubbering sobs whenever the sermon began."

After fourteen years of striving for conditional praise... fourteen years of scattered "I love you"s spoken only when required... fourteen years of dancing just to hear "Good work" uttered from his lips... now it was here— _all of it_ —twenty pages and Janie sobbed.

"#0677. Your scar is a part of you now and I no longer pray for forgiveness."

When the wisps parted and unveiled the stars above William's kingdom; when the peons stifled their barbecues and block parties and drunken ball games for the banality of bed; when the cul-de-sac kids dragged their hockey nets under garage doors and hung their skate laces on bent nails; when Boulevard fell asleep in the glow of street lamps and a blanket of invisible mist... one could hear from the hill the metallic clicks of a typewriter and the lonely melody of William's new song.

" _#1000 We are the same."_

**ELEVEN - The Chorus Room**

"Oh shoot! Oh shoot! Where's the alcohol? I thought I told you to unpack the first-aid kit!"

"It's okay, baby-boo! It's just a bee sting!" Hyde dropped his shorts, plopped into his recliner and inspected his thigh. The flesh was bubbled and pink and the stinger stuck in the center like a blackhead. "Just get a tweezers and some triple antibiotic."

"I'm looking! Did you unpack the first-aid kit?"

"Calm down, sweetie. It's probably under the guest-room bed."

"What the heck is it doing there?"

Kayla found the instruments required for extraction and rushed back to the living room to tend to Hyde's wound on bended knee.

"Ouch, dangit that smarts!"

"My poor baby in his itty-bitty whitie-tighties! How did a bee get in your shorts, anyway?" She rounded the stinger with an alcohol-dipped q-tip.

"They were everywhere. Sarah was complaining about the hive just before it got me."

"Did you have a good time with your new buddy?"

"Don't say 'buddy.'"

"Did you have a good time with your new _friend_?"

"He said he'd let me borrow the lawnmower from his stables."

"You better, mister. Think he used to have horses in there?"

"Maybe when he was a kid. Who knows."

Giggles lifted her front paws to Hyde's knee and observed the procedure with pointed ears.

Kayla removed the tweezers from the plastic kit. "You smell like smoke and citronella. Should I be worried?"

"I had a cigar with the guys."

"Bad boy!" She worked the cold tips of the tool into his thigh. "You know, your mom died of lung cancer."

"From cigarettes. You don't inhale cigar smoke. Ow! Careful!"

"Do you think they liked their rock?"

"I'm sure they loved it."

"Am I trying too hard?"

"No, baby. If you want new clients in a new neighborhood—"

"I hope it works. They're such nice people."

"Sarah invited us for Easter Dinner but I told her it's our night to cook."

"So sweet."

Hyde thought about Stanley's comments in the bar. "What do you think William did that was so crazy?"

"He's tall. Maybe he was a circus freak."

"I'm serious."

"Drugs?"

"Probably. Maybe he killed somebody."

"That's horrible. Does God want you to think like that?"

"It's the way he walks. He holds himself like he's proud of his mistakes."

"Got it!" Kayla held up the pinched tweezers.

"Thanks, baby."

"Don't touch it. I'll put the cream on."

The cream was colder than the tweezers but Kayla's generous slathering quickly eased the ache. "Was William nicer today than he was at the bar?"

"Yeah."

"Did he apologize for hurting your feelings?"

"What? No. And don't you _dare_ say a word to Sarah."

"I didn't."

"You just don't insult a man's profession..."

"He was grumpy."

Hyde grinned. "Grumpy or not, I'll get my revenge tonight."

"Revenge?" Kayla gathered the tools and cleaned the tweezers with a tissue.

"You remember those wireless speakers I showed you? I planted four of 'em in the stables today. I'm gonna scare the crap out of him next time he's workin'."

"William doesn't seem like the type of guy who likes to be scared in the middle of the night. He's not one of your youth-group kids."

"William never had a big brother to tame his narcissism with a slug on the shoulder."

"You're going to be his big brother?"

"Yep."

"But I want them to like us!"

Hyde stood from his chair and Kayla followed with the first-aid kit.

"Dinner soon?" she asked.

"You get started. I'll change into my Easter-best." He pecked her lips and thought of Will. _Did he really go to church in that old blazer and jeans?_ "Hey," he said. "Why don't we have some wine tonight?"

"On Easter?"

"Is there a more appropriate holiday? Come on. New house, new friends... we could try to become a little more sophisticated."

"I thought you didn't like the taste of wine."

"I don't. But we could give it a try."

"I'm not going to a liquor store on Easter Sunday to buy a bottle of wine."

"There's one on Boulevard. Start the shrimp and I'll be back in five. Okay?"

She scrunched her brow and considered the proposal. "Alrighty, bad boy. Sounds like a plan."

The Cucumber Gazpacho was exquisite. _So rarely_ did Hyde compliment food and mean it, but tonight he gave Kayla all the praise for a fantastic recipe.

"I'm glad you enjoyed our untraditional Easter dinner," she said with a swing of her hips. She cleared his plate to the kitchen.

Hyde drooped the corners of his lips into a pretentious frown and spoke with faux-eloquence. "I think the red wine gave the meal a touch of finesse rarely found in that one-bedroom apartment. Welcome, Kayla and Hyde, to suburbia!"

Kayla laughed. "Speaking of suburbia," she dropped her voice to a whisper, "do you think our neighbor's in the stables yet?"

Hyde widened his eyes. "We should check!" He dropped from his chair into an army crawl, then looked over his shoulder and motioned for Kay to get down too.

"I'm clearing the table!" she whispered.

"Forget the dishes! We're on a mission! And bring the wine!"

She grabbed the neck of the bottle and sloshed it around. "It's almost empty!"

"Finish it off! I bought two!"

Kayla swigged the last inch and wiped a drop of crimson from her lip to her arm. She kneeled on the ground, then rested her torso on her elbows.

"Let's go!"

Hyde used his forearms and knees to pull his body across the carpet, past the puzzle table and recliner, then lifted himself to the ledge of the bay window.

Despite a brief Maltese-attack, Kayla made it too. She sat beside him with her back against the wall. "Well? Is he there?"

Hyde curved his fingers into binoculars and spied the stables across the street. "The light's on!"

"But is he there?"

A shadow crossed the window. "Yep!"

"What are you waiting for?"

Hyde scanned the living room and spotted his laptop case beneath his coat by the front door. He crawled to the computer, pulled it to his chest, then dramatically made his way back to Kay.

His precision was off tonight as he struggled to click the right icons and type the right passwords. Kayla kept watch on the stables as Hyde plugged in the portable microphone and opened the voice-altering program. He dialed up the pitch and spoke in the mic. "Hello? Hello? Testing, testing." He sounded like a chipmunk on helium.

Kayla fell to the floor in a fit of laughter. "Do it again!"

He turned the pitch higher. "How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood."

She laughed again and wiped a tear on the same arm as the wine. "Can William hear that?"

"Not yet. The computer's still trying to connect to the speakers."

"Whaddya gonna say?"

"I think you should do it."

"Absolutely not!"

"Don't you want just a little revenge?"

"For what?"

"You know he wants Miss Alice. He doesn't think you're good enough to teach his daughter."

"What a butt head."

Hyde gave her the mic. "Speakers are connected. When I push the spacebar, it'll send anything you say from the voice-altering program to the stables."

Kayla giggled. "What do I say?"

"Scare him. Say 'boo!'"

"That's boring. I'm not going to scare the poor man."

"Pretend you're a ghost!"

"What if he knows it's me!"

"I lowered your pitch and added some reverb. It won't sound like you at all."

"But Hydey! What do I say!"

"Will's a dreamer. He says his biggest regret is giving up on his ambitions. Try to be encouraging."

Something in Kayla's blurry mind clicked. "I have an idea!" She stood up and spread her arms to regain her balance, then tiptoed across the living room to the engraving machine by the kitchen bar. She picked up a rock and waved it to Hyde. "How about this?" she asked and showed him the stone.

Hyde read the quote. "Perfect."

She settled down and crossed her legs over his. "The light's still on. Should we do it?" Her shoulders lifted to her cheeks like a little girl.

"Ready when you are!"

She held the mic with both fists. She nodded.

Hyde pushed the spacebar to start the connection.

It took a moment of silent giggles before she found the composure to speak. Finally, she shook out the sillies, held the mic to her lips, and said, _"William."_

Hyde's crinkled smile suppressed his laughter. He motioned her to keep talking.

"William," she said again, her eyes darting back and forth as if she just stole a cookie from the cookie jar. "William?" she said playfully and Hyde put his face between his knees.

When he couldn't hold back anymore, he hit the spacebar and slapped the floor in cackling delight.

Kay was already looking out the window to see if her words had any effect. "He's at the window!"

"Does he look like he heard us?"

"I don't know! How can I tell? Never mind. He's gone."

"Read the quote from the rock."

She cleared her throat. "I'm ready. Hit it."

He did.

Kayla nearly scared the Cucumber Gazpacho right out of Hyde's stomach. "Go confidently in the direction of your dreams!" She yelled. "Live the life you imagined!"

Hyde mouthed, "Too loud!"

"Louder?" she mouthed back. Before he could correct her, she raised her voice and said it again. "Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you imagined!" She paused and squeezed her hubby's hand. "William," she said. _"Live. The life. You imagined."_

Hyde nodded, then brought his hand to her thigh.

Kayla returned the nod with a seductive pattering of eyelashes. "Follow your dreams, William Carmel," she said while holding Hyde's gaze. "Oh, William..."

Hyde pushed the spacebar and closed the computer.

"Do you think it worked?" she asked, her lips grazing the tip of the mic.

"I guess we'll find out."

"Should you go over and check?"

"Tomorrow." Hyde reached over his wife and set the computer on the ground, then slid it—microphone attached—beneath the coffee table. He took advantage of the new position by kissing her with his tongue. She fell easily into his kiss and slid down the wall. As her body inched to the ground, her dress stuck between her butt and the carpet and bunched up like a straw wrapper as her legs slipped out the bottom.

Hyde reached up and killed the lights, then found his wife on the floor. He worked his pants to his ankles and laid between her open knees.

Something was wrong. It was too easy; _to tame_. They were always making mediocre love with boy on top and girl on bottom. Where was the _passion?_

Defying Kay's expectations, Hyde stood up and grabbed her ankles, then pulled her across the carpet until her dress was a lump and her body was exposed. In one swift motion, he pulled her up by her wrist and pushed her facedown over the upholstered arm of the couch. She didn't question it or utter a grunt of opposition. So Hyde pulled her underwear to the floor and arched his body over hers. His chest hair caught itself in the elastic strap of her bra and tugged with every thrust.

Her hands found his legs and pulled him closer.

He gasped and flinched when her thumb found the bee sting.

"Shit!" she said. "I'm so sorry!"

"Push it again."

"What?"

"Push it again!"

Kayla found the raised flesh and jammed her thumb into the sore.

Hyde pushed harder. He entwined his fingers through the orange curls of hair and pressed her face into the cushion.

With a single backward thrust, Kayla pushed him out and Hyde knew he went to far. But instead of crying—instead of telling him to play nice—she took his hand, sat on the couch, opened her legs, and jerked him to his knees.

Hyde closed his eyes and kissed her, and as he grappled and tamed her bucking chest with both hands, he wondered again what mischief William Carmel got himself into when he was only twenty-six. How cool would it be to swagger into a bar and say, _"Yeah, I had a fucked up past."_

Hyde covered Kay in furious kisses until her stomach curved to the sky. She grasped his head with screaming intensity until her body collapsed with relief.

You don't think I'm passionate, William Carmel? Well what about that?

Kayla let him finish between her legs. Their breathing became syncopated as their bodies dissolved into the fibers of the sofa. For the first time in his life, he craved a cigarette.

Hyde pulled his computer from under the table and used it to cover his shriveling manhood. Kayla opened the lid and inspected the dials of the voice changer that they just used to play a prank on Will.

Slouching in his seat, Hyde could see the stables through the window. "I think he's still working." He twisted his head to Kayla and she grinned. Then, for the third time tonight, she laughed. Maybe it was the wine (months later Kayla would blame the devil) but her chest trembled with a staccato bought of giggles.

Hyde joined in—he couldn't help it—and in an impromptu moment of insanity, he pushed the spacebar and shared the night's hilarity with their neighbor.

* * *

Thursday: eighteen days to the National Championship

_She made good dinners. She told him she loved him. She tried to be what he needed._ She fought this calmly—lovingly—with a rational heart. She promised herself that, when this moment came, _she would be okay_. No more blubbering baby-KayKay on the phone with Mommy to comfort her with baby-voiced encouragement. No more suffocating pillowcases to pace her breath. She would be confident. She would be strong...

... _but it hurt so badly!_ and the hurt swelled sharp and warm against the back of her eyes, threatening to pop them from their sockets if she held back tears.

"Please, Hyde, don't do it." Speaking made it worse. Her lips pursed in a final effort to hold it together. "Hydey, please, _please_ don't do it." Seeing his face made it worse so she looked out the passenger window at the foot traffic on Boulevard. She looked above the smiling couples, past the blinking neon distractions and through the flickering trees... one layer before the night sky, she saw the stage. In her mind, she knew the car was moving, but now—looking at the inky conformation—she felt completely still. It was the theater that seemed to twist, as if its foundation was a lazy-susan or the mechanical base of a spinning music box with stars spiraling like glitter in a snow-globe.

Focusing on the theater quelled the pressure in her eyes. It spoke to her. It told her that she did this before and she could do it again.

"I don't have anywhere to go," she said.

"You can stay at the house. I'll find a hotel."

Every word grounded her fear deeper in reality. Every word crushed her silent prayers.

When she prayed, she prayed to the stage. It was built from worldly brick and mortar, inspired by her mortal words, but it wasn't a golden calf. God was still God; it was _her brain_ that substituted the bearded cliché for something tangible. She could almost hear its music tonight, weaving through the honking cars and seeping through the crack in the window with the summer air.

_Help me!_ she prayed again, and the theater responded:

(Live the life you imagined!)

But she was! Oh God, this _was_ the life she imagined! Loving Hyde, caring for his aches and illness and bee stings... _now that memory stung._ She tried to shake it from her head (when her tweezers found the tiny obstruction and pulled it from his pale leg and he said, "Thank you, Kayla.") The vividness of that golden moment turned the ventricles around her heart into eels with teeth that chewed their way to her core, noshing holes through beating blue webs and brown tissue. Nothing but divorce and death could desecrate such joyful memories.

"Why is this happening?" she asked.

Hyde didn't reply so she braved a look. His hands were gripping the wheel at ten and two. Somehow, it was that detail that made her cry. "Is there somebody else?" she asked.

"No, Kay..."

"Is it because I'm a dancer?"

He didn't reply.

"Is it because I'm ugly when I cry?"

"Of course not."

When life dolled out her share of sadness, Kayla's heart took control of her body and all her husband saw was a crybaby.

_But if he could only feel this!_ If he could feel just _one second_ of pressure on the back of his eyes— _one second_ of toothed eels biting his heart—then he would understand! He would say, "Let's go to dinner, Kay. Let's make it work."

Hundreds of years ago a man could declare "I divorce you" three times to legally banish his wife from his life. Today was hardly different. Hyde would abandon her and there was nothing she could do stop it.

People divorce after tragedy. Not because of the hardship, but because it's a freebie. Who could blame him? Between the death of his mother, the temporary insanity of his wife, the stress of two stores and the absolute meltdown of his only friend... if he ever wanted out, now was the time to do it.

"Please don't cry," he said.

"Where will you go?"

"I don't know."

"Bring me home and stay the night. I'll help you pack and you can leave tomorrow."

Hyde kept his eyes on the road, but nodded his approval and continued home.

* * *

The French doors closed and Hyde lost it.

Tonight, the error message wasn't a square box of colored pixels; through his tears, _it was a watercolor painting_. The curser was an ink-blotch instead of an arrow and Baylee's chat box was a blur of scrambled letters and word fragments, maybe even a poem.

**lilapricot'93:** ja=oi;ereoa;irhe;aoiher!!!!!!!!! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!

**HWelectronics:** _:) :) :) i can't either!_

Kayla Reid was a good person. In the car tonight, through her own tears, she was _pure_. She was a child asking a crush to the dance; holding back the heartbreak when he declined.

With every question Kayla asked, Hyde wanted to make it better. He wanted to send her on a cruise. He wanted to find something— _anything_ —to fill the hole he was leaving behind.

**lilapricot'93:** _did she cry :(_

**HWelectronics:** _yes. she cried._

**lilapricot'93:** _im sorry..._

**HWelectronics:** _it's okay. she'll be okay._

But being a good person didn't make them a good match. Empathizing with her sorrow didn't mean they could spend the rest of their lives together.

Baylee's words became indecipherable and Hyde blinked to clear away the salt.

**lilapricot'93:** _things will get better now. come be with me..._

Hyde laid his face in his arms and sobbed.

A weight had been lifted. He was free. There was no regret in his decision, no guilt lacing his subconscious, no doubt in his mind that he had done the right thing.

* * *

Midnight. Hyde crawled in bed and faced away.

Kayla tried to ignore the two feet of open mattress he left between them. When she relaxed enough for her mind to wander (the moonlit shadow of the Maple was sweeping the rug), the night felt almost normal.

But the tranquility was fleeting, and she remembered that tonight was the last time she would share a bed with her husband.

And it hurt all over again.

Eventually, she did sleep. And when she woke in the early dawn, his arm was around her; his body was pressed against hers. Kayla didn't trick herself into believing the sentiment was intentional, but she relished the moment anyway. In a few minutes he would wake up, realize his mistake, turn away, and leave forever.

But for now, some part of Hyde's being was still holding her, and Kayla wouldn't sleep until he let her go.

* * *

Friday: seventeen days to the National Championship

Hyde always understood the concept behind the phrase "today is the first day of the rest of your life," but today he knew how it felt.

He awoke at noon to his phone buzzing softly from its hiding place beneath the bed. He retrieved it and read his very first text from Baylee as a free man. " _mornin' baby! seems like a really great day to be loving you :) call when ur up!"_

Kayla's dance bag was gone from its spot by the bedroom door and Hyde was proud of her for maintaining her weekend routine in spite of the pain. He half-expected to find her curled up in bed or sitting on the shower mat, but now admired her new ability to control her emotions under stress.

The last few months afforded him few opportunities to smoke Baylee's gift. Even now it was imperative to keep the skunk outside; if Kayla knew about his wake-'n-bake morning, she'd be crushed. He slid the last joint from the baggie and toked the cannabis in his Dale Earnhardt Jr. boxers and the privacy of his backyard. A quick call into work assured him that his employees could last another day without their leader.

Clothes were easier to pack while stoned. Hyde shoved wrinkled belongings into his suitcase and pulled it through the living room, out the front door, and into the car.

"Only seven more hours!" Baylee squealed when he answered the phone.

"Oh God! You have no idea how much I need to see you!"

"I know, I know, I know! Come see me now!"

"You're the one who has class! I'll be in Grand Rapids in an hour."

"I told you I'd skip!"

"No more skipping."

"Same hotel?"

"Same room."

"Eeee!"

He held the phone away from his ear and laughed at Bay's elation.

"I told my mom we're coming to visit on Sunday. She can't wait to meet you, baby. I showed her our pictures and she was crying."

"Why was she crying?"

"Because she could tell you make me happy."

"You tell her I can't wait for Sunday."

"Will do, sweet boy, but I'm walking into chem right now so we'll talk later, okay?"

"Have a good day, sweetie. I'll see you tonight."

"I love you."

Hyde paused, closed his eyes, and savored the moment. "I love you too, Bay."

The car was packed and ready, stuffed to the windshield with two suitcases, office peripherals (including a printer, shredder, mug, headphones and file bin), his favorite pillow, and ten six-packs of lite beer. He double checked every room in the house, fed Giggles, then plopped into his office chair to prepare the laptop for the move.

" _ERROR: 0086428408456"_

"Screw you, error," Hyde said aloud. But today marked a new way of life... no more procrastination! So he opened the internet browser and navigated to Google, then clicked on the search bar and typed, _"what is error: 0086428408456?"_

The results appeared in an endless column down the screen and—

His phone shook with a restricted number. He twirled away from the computer and answered. "Yo. This is Hyde."

"Hyde? It's Will."

_Shit. Not William. Not today!_ "Howdy, neighbor. Long time no talk!"

"I saw your car in the driveway and thought I'd see if you had a few minutes to give me a hand."

_Kayla must have told him about the divorce._ Hyde slammed his laptop shut and zipped it up in the travel case. "I wish you called sooner! I'm just walking out the door. Can it wait till tonight?"

"Aw shit," Will said. "I told myself this morning, 'If you need Hyde's help, you better call him soon!' but I ignored my own advice. Blah. I suppose it can wait. I've just been overwhelmed with all the work that needs to be done before the big show, and with three missing fingers—"

"You know what? I have a few minutes to kill. At your house?"

"The theater. Sure you don't mind?"

He wanted to run. "I've always got time for the Carmels!" he said. "Give me five and I'll stop by on my way to the shop."

"Greatly appreciated," William said. "See you there."

* * *

The gate was open so Hyde drove through and parked in the VIP lot behind the stage. It was five minutes after twelve when he stepped out of the car into the puddle of his own shadow and heard the collective laughter of another Brandywine summer.

He hoisted himself up the loading dock. The metal theater door was propped open with the rock that Kayla gave the Carmels more than two years ago.

Hyde stepped inside. Will's grand piano sat on the ground and the momentary pressure change fluttered the staff paper that covered the instrument's lid. The pages were blotted with sloppy ovals like squashed ants, and angry black scribbles tore thin gashes through the sheets.

Hyde...

The deep reverberating whisper fell from the rafters and—in a split second of drug-induced paranoia—Hyde actually thought it was the voice of God.

" _Hyde Whitaker! You have sinned against me!"_

"Will? Where you at, bro?" He meandered across the stage with his hands in his pockets. "I'm running late, bud. What can I help you with?"

" _Why did you do it, Hyde?"_

"Uh... what?" There weren't many places to hide on the spotless stage. He walked to the front of the left wing and peeked behind the first drape. Nothing.

" _Colder..."_ said the voice.

"I can't play games today. If you don't come out, I'll have to help you another time."

" _Why did you do it, Hyde? William was your friend!"_

He looked to the large black speaker above his head. The power indicator was off... it wasn't the source of the amplified voice.

Paranoia escalated. Hyde felt naked... _observed_. His brain didn't have the clarity to solve this puzzle.

" _Why did you lie to your friend, Hyde?"_

"About what? What did I lie about?" He hopped to another black drape at the rear of the stage and jerked it aside. Nothing.

" _Waaaarmer."_

"Forget it. I'll talk to you later, Will." He marched toward the back door.

" _Will? I am not Will! I am Alpha and the Omega and you are standing in my home!"_

"You're William Carmel and I'm leaving." Hyde stepped on a crumpled piece of staff paper, twisted the ball under his foot, and grabbed the door handle.

" _How did you do it, Hyde? How did you watch your friend go mad? How could you prolong his embarrassment with your silence?"_

It took a moment for the accusation to register, and when it did, his hand dropped from the door handle and his legs felt the sudden compulsion to sit. Will wasn't suppose to know...

How long did he know?

_Kayla._ Kayla told him everything! She told him that her husband was divorcing her and she told him about the prank! What a sick form of revenge!

" _Why did you do it, Hyde?"_

He turned from the exit and looked to the catwalk. "It shouldn't have gotten this far, Will. I'm sorry for that and I take full responsibility."

" _Full responsibility? Are you sure you can shoulder that, Hyde?"_

Thanks to the turbid haze of the cannabis, Hyde's thoughts swam in an ocean of molasses. "I won't have this conversation here. Tell me where you are!"

" _Tuba, mirum spargens sonum per sepulchra regionum, coget omnes ante thronum."_

Hyde barreled down the length of the right-wing and whipped through every drape along the way. The bars swayed overhead and the curtains wobbled like the wings of a sickly raven.

" _Luste iudex ultionis, gonum fac remissionis ante diem rationis."_

He looked to the catwalk and stepped backwards rapidly, blindly, spinning and searching the bandshell ceiling until the floor shifted beneath his footing. He glanced down and found himself in the center of the seam that outlined the square hatch. He bounced his knees and the hatch sagged under the pressure. A perfect hiding place, but William couldn't be downstairs.

" _Lacrimosa dies illa, qua resurget ex favilla iudicandus homo reus. Huic ergo parce, Deus."_

"Where the fuck are you!" he yelled, and then he found him, not obscured behind a curtain, but cloaked in stillness and shadow between the taut ropes of the fly system. The new laptop sat on the same set of weights that had crushed Will's hand; the same hand that now clenched a microphone to his lips.

" _Amen,_ " he said, but his mouth moved out of sync with the booming voice.

Hyde stormed across stage-right and Will remained motionless (but smiling!) behind the vertical bars.

" _Pay no attention to the man behind the rope,"_ he said, his real voice finally audible over the amplified echo from above.

"Did Kay tell you?"

" _Did Kay tell me what, Hyde?"_

"Put the microphone down and talk to me! Did Kayla tell you?"

" _It was only a month ago that I saw you on stage... drooling on yourself. Did you find what you were looking for in your Kindergarten high?"_

"You saw that?"

" _I could have called the police."_

"Salvia's legal."

" _Not when you smoke it on another man's property."_

Hyde snatched the microphone and threw it to the ground with a foundation-rattling _ka-thud._

Will's voice returned to it's mortal growl. "It's okay, old friend. I forgave you weeks ago."

"Forgave me for what? For the joke?"

"For fucking up my life." Will stretched his arms like a pterodactyl from his twine cage. "That feels so good to say!" He looked into Hyde's eyes. "I forgive you, Hyde Whitaker, for fucking up my life."

Something uncorked the drain in Hyde's pool of mental molasses and his sticky thoughts sprang to life with epic clarity. Will was offering the very thing Hyde longed for. But he couldn't accept it. Not this easily. Not after two years of this very confrontation looping through his brain; the ways he justified the prank, the witty retorts to every perceivable question that his buddy could ask. Hyde spent too many sleepless nights assuring himself that he wasn't the reason William lost his hand... or his wife.

He jabbed his index finger in the sunken cavity of Will's chest. "You should be thanking me."

"Oh?"

"I gave you the motivation to pull yourself out of a stagnant life."

Will stepped from the pulley system with one giant stride, forcing Hyde to move back.

"I gave you a reason to stand on that piano. The whole town looked up to you that night. It's not my fault if you fucked it up."

Will took another step forward. "Accept my forgiveness, son, while it's still offered."

"Your narcissism was your downfall. You're full of yourself; a selfish old troll who _types, types, types,_ and _writes, writes, writes_ and dreams of being immortal."

"I didn't call you here to attack me."

"You question the passion I have for my job because you can't imagine a life so mediocre. You laugh at my sports. You tell me that dance and theater and film are nobel; something greater than _mere entertainment_. But I was thinking about it, Will, and you're full of shit. Artists are selfish. Dancers and actors may perform in groups, but they all long for the spotlight. Whether it's a ten-year-old dancing to Britney Spears in Michigan, or a fuckin' opera in Italy. Sports are a team effort. Running a business is a team effort. And I happen to like that idea. I'm not less of a person because I like that idea."

William and Hyde stood center-stage. "I don't think you know what you're talking about. My ambition was to direct film and theater. There's nothing selfish in that collaboration."

"Ah, but the principal is the same. You're still alone in your little head. Maybe you have a crew, but they're just tools. Am I wrong? You use a crew as your paintbrush and your actors as paint. The world still revolves around Bill Carmel!"

Will raised his chin but his eyes stayed on Hyde's. "Is there anything else you need to get off your chest?"

"Sarah—"

"Do not talk about my wife."

"Sarah approached me after your accident. She warned me about you; said she's seen this before. Said your temporary insanity wasn't my fault; that I merely triggered something dormant inside you. What was she talking about, Will? What exactly did I trigger?" Hyde knew he should stop _(oh, how he wished he had stopped!)_ "You must have been _boiling_ that Easter night! Just _longing_ for a sign from God to snap you into full-blown crazy! You would have sacrificed your only daughter if that angel's voice asked you. And when crazy came, what did you do with it, Bill? What greatness came from your brush with divinity? _Mediocrity_. You had matchless passion! You gave it everything your heart and soul and the culmination of your creativity had to offer! You worked for months on this gorgeous theater! And for what? _Mediocrity_. Tennessee Williams will live in infamy for his plays. Steven Spielberg will be remembered for his storytelling _forever_. And William Carmel? Who's that? Oh yeah! He ran a little-kid dance competition... didn't he? Oh that's right... he only _managed the theater_ for a little-kid dance competition."

The self-confidence vanished from Will's expression. His chin was aimed at his chest and his eyelids were heavy with anger. But both pupils were trained right on Hyde. He spoke with deliberate restraint. "Aside from the lie I told my wife, I like who I am. I've made peace with my failures and I am content with my life."

"We lie best when we lie to ourselves."

"Engrave it on a stone."

"Fuck you."

"Follow me."

"Where?"

"I have something to show you downstairs."

"I'm sorry, Will. I went to far." Hyde surprised himself with his instantaneous apology, but the empty words came easily after the terror of William's request.

"Follow me," he said again. "It'll only take a second." He stepped around Hyde and walked to the back corner toward the stage-left staircase.

"I need to go. I'm not in my right mind."

"It'll just take a second," Will repeated, then inspected an L-shaped set jack forgotten against the wall by the Sparkle Motion crew. He grabbed the wooden brace—it was taller than he was—and carried it down the stairs. "You coming, Hyde?" His voice was dampened by the cement walls.

The guilt rained in Hyde like nuclear winter. Maybe it was good that he let it out. Maybe they could start anew. He inhaled until his chest bulged the front of his t-shirt.

Downstairs, the wooden jack was leaning against the cinderblock wall beside the open metal door of the chorus room.

"In here!" Will said and Hyde followed the voice inside.

The darkness was suppressed only by a path of tea candles that sat in the center of every vanity-top, illuminating the walls and mirrors with a glimmer of murky orange. The room smelled of chum and reminded Hyde of Lake Michigan's spring regurgitation of Herring; millions of lifeless fish in rotting white streaks across the beach. He breathed through his mouth but could still taste the putridity.

The first step inside landed with a dull crunch. The candles provided just enough radiance to highlight sunflower shells—open like beetle wings—scattered across the floor like the unidentifiable nestings of a rat-infested attic. William's back was outlined by the farthest candle. The way he was hunched reminded Hyde of Lon Chaney in the black and white version of _The Phantom of the Opera_ ; if he touched his friend's shoulder, he might spin around to reveal a wire-bound face and bulging eye. Whatever Will was gathering in the corner, it was too dim for Hyde to make out.

"Tell me Hyde, have you memorized that number yet?" Will stood erect and turned around with a stack of paper in his arms.

"Number?" Hyde asked.

"I just remember 'zero-zero-eight-six-four...' but I get confused after that. I think it's a two? Does that sound right?"

Hyde may have understood the number his neighbor was referencing, but instead, he found himself distracted by the alter behind William that came to focus more and more as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was a wall of notecards; some were pinned to bulletin-boards, some were taped to mirrors and lights and countertops. A typewriter sat at the head of the shrine.

"You're not dressed for work, Hyde."

"I have the day off."

"Then where were you going?"

"I told Kay I'd drop off her lunch."

"Tisk tisk, Hydey. Thou shalt not lie."

"It's not really your business. Did you have something to show me?" He squinted, but Will's expression was impossible to read.

"You promised me that you would work on things with your lovely wife. But I should have known that a Hyde-Whitaker promise is worthless."

Kay _did_ tell him about the divorce!

"Janie calls her 'cheerleader-pretty,'" Will said. "I noticed she shaves her pubic hair. Why does she do that, Hyde? Is it something the kids find attractive these days?"

He couldn't breathe. And the more he thought about his inability to breathe, the more difficult breathing became.

"I'm not a homosexual... but I wouldn't be a good friend if I didn't recommend a little man-scaping for yourself. I have nose clippers that might work well for that."

He stammered, "How did you... how do you... son of a bitch! _How do you know that?_ "

"Why, my boy, haven't you heard? I hear the voice of God! It was the angels that told me you're a pervert!"

Those numbers... _the error!_ He gasped for breath and braced himself with a hand on a countertop. "You don't know anything about my situation. You don't know my struggle..."

"Oh! So you're a good person _inside_?" William circumvented Hyde while protecting his bundle of paper. "Mr. Hyde Whitaker had the very best intentions when cheating on his wife, so it's okay? No!" he shouted. "Lesson number one of character development: _we are our actions._ And that makes you a very bad person."

"I don't need to justify my divorce to—"

"How do you feel about this girl? This 'little apricot'? Are you going to run away with her? Propose? Will you marry her when you discover she's no different than your last wife? When you discover that you don't actually love her either? Will you ruin Baylee's life like your ruined Kayla's?"

Hearing Will spout her name... Hyde choked. His mouth widened in a desperate attempt to breathe but his mind had lost control of his lungs. His stomach crumpled until his forehead hit a puddle of hot wax, finally sparking his ability to inhale and he did with a long suck of tunafish air.

"Once you're through with her, you'll cast her aside and find a sixteen-year-old to keep you feeling alive. You think you're having a quarter-life crisis, Hyde? Is that it? Then what? A one-third life crisis? A two-fifths life crisis? Leaving a path of broken little girls in your wake, you perverted fuck?"

When his breathing was finally under control, Hyde wiped the wax from his head and turned to face William and the open door. "You'll go to jail for this."

"I warned Janie to stay away from you. She turns fifteen in a few months... I know you want to go confidently in the direction of your dreams, but... she's my little angel."

"If you tell anybody I'll have you locked up so fast..."

Will backed away. "Do you remember when you went on your business trip last month? Well, Janie went back to your house and installed our little program on your wife's computer too. While I was watching your photo sessions at the hotel, Janie stayed at home and watched Kayla... browse."

"That's so fucking illegal. When Sarah finds out, she'll never—"

"Do you know what your wife looked up while you were away, Hyde? She typed in 'ways to save a marriage.' She looked up gifts for you. She looked up 'favorite guy quotes.' When Janie told me that part... it made me weep. Your wife was going to engrave you a rock, Hyde. Maybe she did. Did she give you a rock, Hyde?"

"You'll lose it all. I'll take away your home. I'll take away your theater. One call to Pauline and it's over. When she finds out that a _joke_ drove you crazy, you think she'll still help you out?"

Will's black eyes reflected the line of candles. Without another word he took two lumbering steps backwards, out the door, and slammed it shut.

* * *

Hyde's body crashed into the door before William could finagle the wooden set brace into position. The silver handle twisted at the same time that Hyde used his shoulder as a battering ram, and the flat metal bucked Will's cheekbone hard enough to knock him back, but not hard enough to keep him down. The impact unfastened his grip on the loose manuscript, and the pages cascaded to the ground like a cruel game of Fifty-Two-Card Pickup.

Eight fingers poked their pulpy tips around the edge of the door. William countered the attack with a brutal punch of his shoulder, and seven of the fingers slipped away.

Hyde screamed. Will threw his back against the closed door, eased himself down, and slid his feet until they touched the opposite wall of the narrow hallway. Hyde screamed again—words this time—but the door muffled his cry.

The jack was draped with sheets of paper and laid on the ground beneath William's outstretched legs. Its length ran parallel to the hall. He would need to turn it ninety degrees to properly secure the door.

Hyde jiggled the handle and hammered his fists against the metal behind Will's head.

In one swift motion, William released the pressure on the door, spun his body counterclockwise on the toe of his shoe, snatched the jack in his talon, and braced the "L" into the bottom corner of the opposite wall.

Hyde pushed again, but Will planted his heel against the butt of the door just in time to stop it. The attack only gained Hyde an inch, but an inch was enough for William to see the blood and torn flesh of his victim's finger, scraped like flecks of mashed potato above the deadbolt.

The sliver between the door and the frame gasped "Please!—" but William cut the breath short by wedging the jack's point against the very center of the door. He released his hold, then pressed the beam down until it braced the door shut.

He relaxed. He arched his body backward until his spine popped, then he inspected the tender skin above his beard with the tips of his fingers. It would almost certainly bruise.

Hyde continued his rant. The screams were muffled, but his thumps shook the door like a timpani.

Twenty unused bags of mortar were still stacked like firewood in the room beneath the hatch. William stepped inside and ignored the square-shaped eclipse eleven feet above his head. By this time next year, Pauline's partnership would afford his theater the hydraulic lift it needed to make this room—and that hatch—fully functional.

But right now, he needed cement.

He briefly considered repositioning the pyramid of fifty-pound bags in front of the chorus-room door, but the obstruction would be a blood clot in the theater's main artery and a tripping hazard to the performers.

William ignored the panicking cries. He balanced on his left foot and brushed away his scattered screenplay with his right, then dropped the bag in its place with a puff of quicklime from the seams.

Next, he rolled a yellow bucket ( _"Caution!"_ it said) from the storage closet. It still held water—thick with soap and grime—and some of the muddy concoction sloshed on his work. "Damnit," he muttered and blotted the stain with his blazer. Fearing another accident, he gathered the screenplay into a pile and set it on the steps. He would organize it later.

William mixed the dirty water with the ripped bag of cement and considered the liquid situation. There were at least three untouched containers of tuna left in the room; maybe even a discarded can of peach juice. How many bottles of Coke were there? He was so enraptured by his writing that he ignored such trivial matters, but now an extra two-liter meant the difference between three days and ten.

He used his fingers as miniature trowels, filling in the cracks around the door frame then filling them again when Hyde's anger crumbled his handiwork.

After twenty minutes of work, the breakout attempts finally subsided and the mortar sealed the door's perimeter and dampened the drumming vibrations. The jack would need to stay wedged in place until the cement was dry.

The lime began to sting. William pulled the remaining half of the bag into the storage closet, then used a damp mop to sweep away the trail of dust. When the hall was clean and secure, he rushed upstairs to the bathroom, removed his toothbrush from the sink, and washed his crusted hands. He would sleep at the house tonight.

_Janie._ The last time he saw his daughter was last night when she brought him a bowl of turkey salad. Today was Friday. Kayla picked her up at 2:45 on Fridays. That meant she was practicing in her room. Her window faced the theater, but the theater blocked her view of Hyde's arrival and parked car.

_The car_.

Shit.

Standing in the afternoon heat with his hands on his hips, William wondered if anyone had noticed Hyde's cement-grey car as it turned from Boulevard into the gravel parking lot. It was a Friday in June; surely dozens of people saw the car. But what were the odds that one of those people knew Hyde?

Will's heart had remained a steady seventy-five beats per minute during the entire conversation with Hyde. It had raised to ninety during the jamming of the door, and finally settled to its usual sixty-five when he finished the cement job. But when William remembered that Hyde was a practicing member of the twenty-first century and carried either a cellphone or earpiece at all times, his chest nearly imploded.

Once again, technology would be his downfall.

He paced around the car. If Hyde still had his phone—if the phone still had service—William would be hearing sirens instead of laughter from a distant birthday party. Right? Then he grabbed the driver's side handle and pulled.

It was open.

The keys were in the ignition. The cellphone laid crooked in a cup holder.

Will pressed his forehead against the steering wheel until his heart resumed its normal rhythm, then he started the car.

Across the lot, through the gate, down the back of the hill; he turned left at the base and abandoned the pavement for grass. He followed the curve of the hill and stopped when the car was facing the back portion of the stables.

The massive sliding door was fifty feet away, but if William pulled another inch forward, he would be visible to Clint and Travis on the left, and Janie's bedroom in front. Another twenty feet and Hyde's house would peer from behind his... but Will was certain that Kayla was still at her morning dance lessons.

He hopped from the car and meandered to the stable door. The foot latch was rusted, but a solid kick broke it loose and he pulled back the door in steel tracks.

He eyed the gay's home on his way back to the car, but it was difficult to spot any peeping Toms through sun-streaked windows.

Janie's blinds were closed.

Back in the car, William studied the final stretch to freedom. Somehow, he knew the path was clear. He knew that nobody was watching; and that nobody had seen Hyde turn into the theater's entrance. He grinned at the notion of freedom, then rolled the car across the yard and entered the stable's refuge.

* * *

Janie and William were sitting on the wicker chairs when Kayla pulled her car up the drive. Will smiled and waved. Kayla lifted the corners of her lips, raised a hand, and moved it from side to side.

Janie was truly as perceptive as Kayla feared. Despite a triple-platinum smile and, "Hey there Janie!" the girl new something was wrong before she was in the car.

"What happened? You're sad." She tossed her bag in the back and buckled up.

Kayla dipped and dodged the questions and steered the conversation back to smalltalk; she would never tell Janie Carmel that her heart was broken beyond repair.

Kay called Hyde for the first time at four o'clock when the desperation to hear her husband's voice overcame the desperation to remain calm. She speed-dialed his number and bottled the tears in preparation, but he didn't answer.

Her voicemail was simple, loving, independent. "Hey," she said, "I hope you're still open to a discussion tonight. Maybe we can meet for dinner or talk over the phone before bed. I love you. You might not want to hear it, but I do."

The tears broke at the last phrase, but she shut and pocketed the phone before her weeping became audible.

Hyde didn't answer an hour later, or the hour after that.

Kayla left Janie in charge of closing up. She couldn't be there when Sarah arrived to pick up her daughter. Sarah was in Hyde's position. Sarah was the one who left.

Friday night came and went without an answer or call. When the next two days followed suit, Kayla knew that her husband's decision was final.

* * *

As the neighborhood slept and the crickets announced the night, William stepped from the house, crossed the yard, and entered the stables through the back door.

Dirt-covered planks served as the rickety floor between the abandoned section of stables and the hollowed-out bomb shelter. The splintered boards pried quickly and quietly. After an hour of work, William found himself face to face with a chasm twice the size of the incriminating vehicle.

He put the car in neutral and pushed from behind.

A quarter inch of tin siding and two acres of midnight silence separated that hole from the closest neighbors... but if anyone heard the brief crash of bumper on dirt, the low creek of collapsing metal, or the subsequent shoveling of gravel, they would simply assume that Crazy-Will Carmel was up to his usual mischief.

* * *

Monday: fourteen days to the National Championship

(Three days in. Dizziness. Headaches. Confusion. Brown urine inspected by candlelight in the private-most recess of the room. William's conscious mind censored the naughty hypotheticals, but his "way-down-deep" relished the punishment's possibilities. If he removed the two—maybe three—partial bottles of soda-pop from the chorus room before lock-down, the symptoms might have arrived sooner; four days without water would kill a man.)

Janie returned Monday evening with her usual stories of Uncle Rick's cheesy magic tricks and the pull-out couch that squeaked when she tried to get comfortable. "The kids hate it when I practice," she said. "The only wood floor is in the kitchen and it's right above their room."

"How was Kayla in class on Friday?" he asked.

"A mess. Did Hyde really leave?"

"I watched him load the car and drive off."

"Couldn't you do something? After everything we saw him say and do?"

"His time will come."

"What happened to your cheek?"

"Got into a fight with the chorus-room door."

"You need to watch yourself. Bend down." She tugged his lapel and he obeyed. She kissed the bruise.

Several days ago, William and Janie used the laptop and microphone to record a temporary track of his new song on the busted piano. The beats and tempo were as they would be in the final version, but Will needed more time to perfect the details.

Janie used the new temp track to practice her championship routine for eight hours per day. Sometimes she practiced with her dad, sometimes with internet videos; sometimes she locked herself in her bedroom and William could hear his melody again and again and it never got old.

"Do you think I'll win?" she asked.

"If you work hard," he said.

"Even with all those dancers from all over the country?"

"You're gifted. You're determined. You're a Carmel. That's a deadly combination."

(Four days in. William knew this was a different game... not like before when all eyes were on him as he constructed the ark, bringing the animals two by two. This was an _internal game_ ; a game of patience and daring where the prize was a jet engine in his chest, a self-important narcissism that boldly stated _"look what I can do!"_ to no one but himself, lifting his ego to new heights and damning those who followed simplified morality. William Carmel was a creative being! This is what creative beings do! Writers, directors, singers, dancers, actors... they internalize darkness and output beauty. Hyde's trip to the chorus room was inspired. Necessary. Empowering. If William had the mental and emotional capacity to hide a living man, ignoring the imagined pleas for food and drink, letting him rot in stinking silence like Sarah's leftover beef in the fridge; if William could do that, _he could do anything._ )

Once again, it was the business end of theater ownership that left him in the dumps. He spent hours at a real desk in his real house, squinting at the phonebook's fine print under light from an ordinary lamp. He spoke with a dozen rental companies and nobody in a fifty-mile radius had enough pop-up tents to house eight-hundred costume-changing dancers. He still had to determine the spacing around the fence, split the massive order between the rental houses, budget the individual delivery fees...

And tents were only the beginning. Every changing room required an extension cord, power strip, work light and sandbags, as well as five body-length mirrors, twenty folding chairs and two tables.

The Championship attendance numbers dropped considerably when Pauline publicly announced the change of venue. Frustrated teachers refused to alter their travel plans and pulled their dancers from the competition. But as the final confirmations poured in, Pauline kept William updated with the rising numbers.

Thirteen days left and if current estimations held, William needed forty tents. Forty tents meant forty lights, eighty tables, two-hundred body-length mirrors, eight-hundred folding chairs, and the manpower to put it all together.

"I need one large tent for merchandise," Pauline said. "It needs to look sharp, Will. T-shirts and teddybears bring in the bulk of our bread here, understand?"

"Got it."

"It should tie down and zip up so we can leave it out overnight. Understand?"

"Sure do."

"Where are we on security?"

_Nowhere._ "It's coming along."

"I realize you're not accustomed to these considerations, but when you can't afford to hire employees, these responsibilities fall on you. You know me, Will. If some little tyke slips off the stage and breaks a leg, I might call it a life lesson, but parents call it a lawsuit."

"I understand."

Advertising wasn't a priority to Pauline. Sparkle Motion never charged admission, plus, unaffiliated spectators only made up less than five-percent of the average audience. But the exciting circumstances regarding the proposed partnership kept Will's focus on turning that five-percent into two-hundred.

Janie designed and printed black-and-white fliers to distribute throughout town. The pamphlet for the church boards read, "Sparkle Motion's National Championship: The Show Where Miracles Happen!" while the regular fliers focused on the award-winning dance numbers, sexy costumes, nightly firework displays, and the air of uncertainty that had become the essence of the theater on the hill.

"One more thing," Pauline said with a mounting Tennessee twang. "You know I'm a hard woman, Will. I run my ship tighter than an alligator's ass and I don't respond well to pansy behavior. But I think my boy's heartbroken. Normally I'd see a fifteen-year-old boy crying over lost love and I'd smack the sick right outta his heart, but I can't do that with Chase. He's a strong kid, and by-gal if he's upset, there's a damn good reason. He'd kill me if he heard me say it, but I think you should talk to Janie and see if they can't talk things through."

"Interesting," Will said. "Janie's been acting pretty normal lately. But I'll talk to her."

"Much appreciated, partner."

William talked to his daughter, but not about the boy. "Do you ever see your friends anymore?"

"At dance."

"Do you still hang out with Meg and Becca?"

"At dance."

"What about that girl you always hated?"

"Tracy?"

"That's the one."

"She's still with Miss Alice. We don't talk."

"I see..."

(Six days of teeth-grit, crusted ambition and no nineteen-year-old girl wailed on Hyde's front lawn. No search parties were dispatched. There was only Kayla—her anguish becoming fear—who smelled the amiss like a pup learning to track coons. New estimations from Will's memory declared six-liters of consumable liquid _at most_ including peach syrup and tuna juice. If these six liters were strategically rationed and the temperature of the sepulchre remained consistent, symptoms of dehydration would be moderate at best. Muscle cramps. Constipation. Tingling limbs. Chafed flakes of dried skin rejuvenated with a dab of precious saliva.)

* * *

Seven days after Hyde left, Kayla called Brian Cavenaugh to file a missing persons report.

Brian was the only person in Brandywine taller than Will. He was broader too in the face and limbs; a gentle giant with a crewcut too small for his head. _To hide the male-pattern baldness_ Kayla thought, though now wasn't the time to be cynical. In her living room, Brian accepted the glass of water and sat down—

"Not that chair!" she said and he froze, his butt hovering an inch from Hyde's recliner.

"Of course, Mrs. Whitaker, I'm sorry." Cavenaugh moved to the couch. Kayla didn't correct the mistaken name.

Brian's voice was always a hair louder than it needed to be. "I've seen your husband from a distance on several occasions, but I'm afraid the only time we spoke was when he sold me a universal remote last year. I'll need some help with a physical description; hair and eye color, approximate height and weight, any scars, voice—"

"Light brown hair with reddish highlights... lighter now because it's summer. Blue-grey eyes. Five-feet nine-inches tall and about one-eighty since he lost weight. No scars. His voice is..." Kayla shook her head. "...manly?"

Cavenaugh jotted the description on a yellow notepad. "That's fine, Mrs. Whitaker. And the last thing you saw him wearing?"

"Boxers— no... he wore sweatpants to bed. It was hot in our room but it was our last night together, so I think he felt uncomfortable... with so little clothes..."

"You're doing great. I know how difficult these questions can be."

She nodded.

"Does your husband—"

"Just Hyde."

"Does Hyde have any special medications that he relies on?"

"No. None. Nothing like that."

"Where was the last place you saw your husband? Can you describe your last interaction?"

"He was in bed. Asleep. The night before..." Kayla paused. She couldn't stand to hear the words spoken aloud so she closed her eyes and whispered them instead. "He said he wants a divorce. He was planning on leaving in the afternoon. I was a disaster, but I went to work anyway. I left before he did."

Cavenaugh was taking notes when Kayla finally looked up. She could only assume the doubt in his written words.

"Is there anyone else who may have seen or spoken with Hyde after you did?"

"Maybe Will..."

"William Carmel?"

"He's usually home during the day. He could have seen him leave, but they don't really talk anymore."

"Is there anywhere Hyde might have gone?"

"No. Since the first store opened he was either at home or at work. He was an only child and his parents are dead. He has cousins but they don't talk much anymore. Our old friends... we've been losing touch."

"Do you know if he brought any personal belongings with him?"

"Everything." Kayla could tell that Cavenaugh was debating his next question.

"There's nobody else you suspect Hyde might be staying with?"

"He said he's not having an affair. I believe him."

Brian nodded. His eyes remained fixed on his notes until his thoughts were wrapped up. "I'll need a photograph. Straight-on head shots are usually best."

"Okay."

"Also, any phone records from Hyde's cell will probably give us the best indication of his whereabouts."

"He pays the phone bills..."

"Find a statement for a website or service number. With some carriers you can see recent calls online, with others, you may need to request a hard copy. Then bring them to the station and we'll take a look."

"I can do that."

He cleared his throat. "Mrs. Whitaker, I'm going to give you my personal opinion as a friend instead of an officer of the law. The hard reality is that you and Hyde are separated now. Divorce may seem like a long way down the road, but if your husband wanted to get out, it's likely he went...

_La la la la la!_ Kayla blocked out Brian's unwelcome dose of reality and fixated on the theater outside the bay window. If she looked away—if she stopped imagining the prism of lights, the sandy sound of a tap scraping the hardwood, that backstage sense of devotion with girlfriends that would snap her bra but never leave, the smell of sweat and hairspray and the taste of watermelon lipgloss she wore as a girl with dreams and prayers to God to make her a dance teacher—if she looked away from that theater, she would hear Brian's words and pray to die.

"Mrs. Whitaker? Are you okay?"

"Hyde never goes anywhere without checking in at work." She crossed her legs and looked away, then traced an invisible pink ribbon on her ankle. "That's why I finally called you. If he was ignoring me, I would assume the same thing you assume. But his employees keep calling..."

"The circumstances are odd so I'm going to file this for you. But in these situations, the right answer is usually the simplest."

She nodded and pulled a tissue from its box on the coffee table. "I can't do it much longer, Mr. Cavenaugh. I can barely stand, much less teach my kids to dance. The championship is right across the street but I can hardly move..."

"Listen to me, Mrs. Whitaker. You're a strong woman. I have no doubt in my brain that you'll get through this. They may get a little agitated down at the station if you call a hundred times a day, so I'm going to give you my personal number. If you need an update—if you just need to talk about things—you call me at any time. Otherwise we'll follow up with you every chance we get until we figure out what the heck is going on."

"Please don't tell the neighbors about..."

"I need to include it in my report, but nobody will know about the separation except you and me."

* * *

From the guest-room window, William watched Kayla stand on her tiptoes to hug Sherlock Cavenaugh by his patrol car in the driveway. She said goodbye, then stumbled through her rock garden on the way to the front door. Sherlock started his car, backed out of the driveway, drove eight houses down the road, and parked in his usual spot.

(Eight days in the tomb and the banging metal door still found Will in his sleep. His daughter shook him awake and in the frightening few seconds of morning amnesia, he was still scraping invisible cement from his arms. Janie caught the bug of Kayla's concern and asked her father if he was the reason Hyde was gone. He lied. Even though he knew the apple of his eye could handle the truth, _he lied_. (The deepest sedimentary layer of consciousness was rarely disturbed, but in this dust of abandoned musings, William knew why he couldn't tell Janie the part he played— _was playing_ —in the escalating mystery of Hyde's disappearance; _she might condemn him too._ ))

* * *

Monday: seven days to the National Championship

"Scar Face?"

"Hey Tracy..."

"Are you here to club me in the kneecap?"

"No. I know this is totally weird... but I wanted to say congratulations on your Best in Category trophies. I'm excited to see you dance again next week."

"...Um... Okay. You too."

"I just have the one ballet..."

"I never forget my competitors. Swan Lake. You beat me by a point again."

"Well, I'm switching the song for nationals..."

"I didn't know you could do that."

"I don't really know how it works..."

"Uh, Janie? Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?"

"No."

"Do you need to come in?"

"If you want me to go, I'll—"

"It's cool. I just... this is weird."

"I should go..."

"Janie! I said you can come in. Do you, like, want a drink or anything?"

"How are things with Carter? I haven't seen you since school got out..."

"Is that why you're here?"

"What?"

"To laugh at me? He was a perverted douche-bag, Janie."

"You broke up?"

"Yeah, we broke up."

"I'm sorry."

"Bull shit."

"You're too good for him."

"Oh... Well, I'm fine with it. If you want to go out with him—"

"He's disgusting."

"Totally. Are you sure you don't want a drink or—"

"I just need to talk."

"Um—"

"My old friends don't like me anymore. You live so close and I know you hated me before, but—"

"Shit, Janie. That was middle-school. We were kids. If you need to talk—"

"It's my dad."

"Aw, man. Is he still crazy?"

"It's not that. Well, it _is_ that... but it's different."

"Give me the scoop, girl."

"I don't think he can handle this show."

"He seems okay. We see him working up there every night."

"It's too much. He needs to order these tents and he's spending too much money on advertising to hire security guards and—"

"Oh, girl... Don't cry or you'll make me cry!"

"I—"

"Your dad is a mad genius. He'll get it together."

"He won't. He's writing me this song. He's trying to get my mom back..."

"You poor girl—"

"...he doesn't hire any help because we can't afford it so it's just him and me..."

"I'm sorry I called you Scar Face."

"It's fine."

"I'm sorry for those things I drew... the comics about you and your dad and stuff. We were so frickin' stupid back then..."

"It's okay."

"It's not okay. It was totally mean. And if anyone ever found out that was me... I'd be grounded for life."

"I'm over it. Really. I just—"

"I'm gonna grab a root beer. You sure you don't—"

"Yeah, root beer sounds great."

"I'll grab the drinks, then you're going to tell everything about everything. Okay?"

"Thanks Tracy."

"Anytime, girl."

* * *

Wednesday: five days to the National Championship

(Rattling dreams of that telltale door diminished with every passing night and William filled the void with lingering thoughts of Hyde's _bad_ to help justify his _good_. _Six months he cried for Sarah._ Now he savored this new dream of the neighbor's tearless sobs—dry heaves with scratchy eyes—and he woke rigid from the fantasy. _The End_ would be preempted by delirium-whispered words in the last withering inch of match-light; perhaps a stone-cold cliché about the pursuit of happiness? A vision might be the cherry on top; a football stadium in a field of corn could provide a welcomed distraction from the insomnia and thoughts of impending death.)

"No! Wrong! Stop the music!" Janie threw her hands down and Kayla pushed "stop" on the boombox. "Hannah B., you're a half beat behind. Megan, in how many competitions have you performed this routine?"

"Four."

"Do you know your choreography?"

"Yes."

"And you're still watching _me_ instead of your audience. Desi, I know you have bigger boobs than the rest of us put together, but you gotta keep 'em in. Hairspray your leotard if you need to because I'm not losing points for another nipple slip. And Jaclyn, if you don't spit that gum out..."

Little Jaclyn McNeil spit the wad off the front of the stage. "Sorry Miss Janie."

"Watch me one more time. Focus. See the dance in your mind's eye, ladies. Push it, Kay!"

"What time?" Kayla asked.

"One minute, thirty-three seconds."

William remembered a time when people used adjectives like "daring" and "risqué" when describing Madonna's music. He remembered when Sarah got the melody of "Like a Prayer" stuck in her head, then blushed when he read her the lyrics. Twenty years later, the helicopter-parenting paradox condemned unsupervised outdoor play, but allowed six-year-olds to shimmy to "Material Girl."

The back of Janie's tank-top was dark with sweat and molded to her shoulder blades like amphibian skin. Forty students from Kayla's Dance Studio stood at ease while she demonstrated their modern dance choreography for the hundredth time on the open edge of the stage. Parallel feet, angular arms, no structure or discipline... if Janie's exquisite technique didn't transform the overly emotive modern-dance style from "offensive" to "watchable," William may have vomited right there in the left-wing. "Material Girl" was the only large-group number that Janie choreographed, and consequently, it was the only large-group number to rank high enough in the regionals to receive a coveted invitation to next week's championship.

Five days until the show; four until Pauline arrived to scrutinize the particulars of William's business and to reassure herself about the profitability of the potential investment. Her approval meant William's creative freedom. If she agreed to a partnership, he would finally be released of the business burdens that chained his passion to his bank account. He assured Pauline he could handle the massive accommodations. At the time, he was confident that he could do it... (...but the anxiety and thrill of that unexpected hap—though inspiring in its own way—tangled and devoured words like "profit," "rental contract," "entrepreneur," and "accounting." Oh how Hyde would laugh if his misfortune distracted William Carmel from his dream!)

Kayla sat by the boombox, legs straight, hands behind her back with the palms flat on the wood, melding with the black curtain in a black blouse and skirt. To William's surprise, his theater had adopted Kay as the resident ally cat. She was never on his property when he wasn't; he made sure of it. The gates were locked at night, and he knew when she was home. But when he worked, he kept a crack in the gate so she could slink between the bars like a hungry stray. She wasn't suspicious. It wasn't her intention to spy. Their eyes often met unexpectedly as William paced the grounds—planting stakes in the approximate locations of the forty-two tents or fiddling with the broken speaker from a twelve-foot ladder—he would hear a bump or rustle and Kay would be there with her cheek pressed against velour, fingers clung to a detail in the molding, body, and limbs resting in the nooks and hiding from the embarrassment of uncertain identity. _Wife. Divorcee. Widow?_ Though her demeanor suggested she needed a comfortable bed and a warm shower, William knew that she was perfectly content under that drape; it was only out of obligation that she monitored her students and controlled their songs.

(He often saw that lurking kitten on his stage and his mind played its tricks; _Dear William! Don't let her in!_ _She knows the plot!_ That lynx heard the rattling door like keys against her whiskers, and if Will looked away, she would slip down those stairs and into that hall and she would see the cement and _know!_ Ah, but logic once again settled his irrational fears: pussy had no interest in that chorus-room door. Two years as a "teacher" and never _once_ a foot downstairs or a glance into the narrow grave. That ordinary door held a storage closet; a time portal for all she knew! And the solid seal was merely another quirk in a carnival of quirks. Sometimes his "way-down-deep" imagined that Kayla discovered the secret of the mortared room; that she solved its mystery and witnessed the horror and wrapped her arms around Will's neck and thanked him for the favor.)

"Off!" Janie yelled and Kayla stopped the music. "Any questions?"

Nobody raised a hand, but Megan pointed behind Janie to the far end of the field and said, "Who's that?"

Janie spun around and narrowed her eyes. "Somebody's parents?"

William stepped from the wing and followed his daughter's gaze to the horizon. The uninvited guests were distant specks spread across the upper curvature of the hill and approached the perimeter fence like the rolling bumps of a music box cylinder. Through the unlocked gate came twenty men, women and children. Will could see Cavenaugh—blue and black from hat to toe—in the lead. (Was he discovered? Was this a mob? Impossible!)

Kayla stood. Several of the children foresaw a needed break and sat on the floor. Hannah Banerjee stepped forward and muttered, "Dad?"

"William Carmel?" Cavenaugh shouted and the others came into view. They were neighbors.

"What can I do you for, Sherlock?" Will asked.

"We need to talk."

Tracy walked beside her father with Sharon a step behind. Sandeep and his wife were next in line with cardboard boxes in their arms. There was Pastor VanDuyn from The Church of the Dunes, Julie Crowe with bare feet and stilettos in her hands, Marvin Gibson still bound by a necktie from the firm, Jen and The Other Will, the Bauers, Johnsons, Peltons, Clint and Travis, and Stan Bright with his neon vest and mud-splattered shoes. Mrs. Danthers held Matt Johnson's arm for balance as they inched across the picnic area. Will wondered how the old woman made it up the hill. There were others he didn't recognize; a man and woman wearing Whitaker Electronics Polos, two women that—based on their tight legs and small breasts—must be dancers.

The mob marched up the side steps and merged with the students. They were smiling. Every one of them.

Tracy approached Janie with wet eyes, and the girls embraced.

"Somebody said there's gonna be a dance championship here this week?" Sherlock said.

Janie looked at Will and shrugged.

From the base of the steps, Mrs. Danthers waved her arm and exclaimed, "We're here to help! And I brought cookies!"

* * *

On Tuesday, they arrived. On Wednesday, a little birdie alerted the Channel Six News of an inspirational human-interest story. On Friday, reporter Robin Dawson stood in front of the theater and declared, "This may be the miracle that William Carmel has been waiting for."

The "miracle" consisted of a loosely organized band of Brandywine folks who—at one time or another—felt connected to the Carmel family. The group had been rallied by Brian Cavenaugh after Tracy sympathetically divulged Janie's confessions. Between Kayla's secret separation, Hyde's rumored disappearance, and William's ocean of marital, financial, and household difficulties, the concentrated suffering at Brandywine's dead-end unbalanced the subdivision and weighed the rest down like the bow of a sinking ship.

The distress was too much for Cavenaugh's big heart. Something had to be done.

Past qualms were set aside for the countdown to the show. Morgan Demfield once condemned a speech William made on a turning piano. But when the theater was completed and the Sunday services regularly preached her denomination's beliefs, she asked God to forgive William's heresy. He did (almost immediately), and she responded to Cavenaugh's call with open arms and five-hundred free fliers from her daughter's part-time job at Super Copies.

After her initial gift of snickerdoodles, Mrs. Danthers pledged to deliver fresh meals every evening to both William and Kayla.

Darrel Pelton admitted that he had never spoken a word to Hyde's wife, "...but I don't mind mowing her lawn to appease the covenant regulations. The last thing that poor woman needs is an outrageous fine."

Judy Bauer offered an in-home massage free of charge, and Julie Crowe sacrificed a full day of her maid service. "I'll send them to Kay's house on Thursday," she promised.

Clint and Travis created personalized certificates that could be exchanged for gardening assistance, loaves of C&T's famous dark-chocolate raspberry bread, and free car washes. The notes were presented to William and Kayla in separate envelopes among pressed flowers and flattened sprigs of rosemary.

Marvin was the first person to receive a handshake and smile from William after the on-stage ambush. He noticed the piano by the back door and offered to have his secretary's husband tune it at his expense. Will denied the offer and explained that he still needed to record Janie's ballet music. Marvin was confused, but gathered the other men anyway and reassembled the instrument. By Thursday night, the grand piano stood on all four legs with reattached bronze pedals. The wood was dusted to a dented shine; three strings still curled from the treble end of the lid.

Granola Bauer supplemented his wife's massage with a pat on Will's back. "You defied me, old man. I've been predicting your theater's demise for two years, but you proved me wrong tonight."

William replied, "I liked you better as an anarchist."

Granola winked.

Cavenaugh's gift solved William's most pressing matter: eight portable light towers were scheduled for delivery and assembly around the perimeter fence on Friday morning. The lights would provide security and illumination to the picnic audience and the changing tents. In addition, Sherlock and seven other officers would spend their downtime working security, three guys at a time, for all five days of the show.

Perhaps the simplest and most shocking display of kindness came from Stan Bright. He removed his construction vest, draped it over his shoulder, and hugged William. "The past is the past," he said. "You're a good man, Will."

Jaxon couldn't make it to the surprise party, but showed his support with a letter beneath William's door. Signed and sealed by Jax himself, the note relieved the Carmel property of Association dues for six months. _"Take the money you save and employ a year-round security guard. My thoughts are with the Carmel family."_ Kayla received a similar note of condolence.

William accepted the outpouring of generosity with an open smile, a hundred "thank you"s, bear hugs with back slaps, and stifled tears. When Sandeep topped off the evening by announcing the Brandywine men would help assemble the tents on Saturday, Will broke down and cried.

(The neighbors, residents, _"others,"_ became white blood cells and clung to Will's infected theater, unaware that—with all their cheerful intentions—they were only polishing a headstone. He smiled that evening with mustered gaud and exclaimed, "Welcome to my stage!" because he no longer heard invented clatter from the basement or mistook a clock's secondhand for the subtle _tink-tink-tink_ of some makeshift tool against the cinderblock walls. Nor did he flinch at the thought of a helper-outter sweeping the downstairs hall, silently questioning the reason behind the finger-painted seal around the chorus-room door. To his greatest relief, William could finally make the distinction between real smells and the odor of make-believe rot; so lifelike last week that it singed the hairs in his nose. But the catacombs were airtight; no vents or windows or cracks in the door to pollute the stage with the eventual stench. _Ha!_ Will mused as his confidence grew rattier. _In pace requiescat!_ )

* * *

Friday: three days to the National Championship

" _I'm standing at the hill between the Brandywine subdivision and Boulevard Street on the front edge of William Carmel's landmark theater. Some claim the stage was inspired by the voice of God. Today, the stage itself may have inspired a miracle as a community joins together to turn one man's dreams into reality."_

Brian Cavenaugh was right where he needed to be, sitting on the couch with pajama pants and a t-shirt instead of a uniform; wife under his right arm, daughter under his left. Although his only reason for the philanthropy was the well-being of his neighbor, watching the news document his good deed _did_ bring a sense of accomplishment.

On the TV, Robin Dawson gave a brief tour of the theater with William as her guide. _Fantastic promotion,_ Brian thought.

"Robin sure changed her opinion of that box." Sharon always referred to the theater as "that box." "Remember her brutal article about the construction?"

"Sure do," Brian said.

"Didn't anybody tell Will he was going to be interviewed? He didn't even comb his hair—"

"Mom!" Tracy said. "Be nice."

Robin and William sat in director chairs on the center of the stage. _"Your amphitheater has seen several large-scale events in the two years since the grand opening._ Les Mis _and_ Madame Butterfly _jump to mind, but what makes this week's dance competition special to you?"_

The camera cut to Will, head back with a crescent of a smile hidden behind his beard. _"Well, Robin,"_ he said, _"dance has always played a large part in my family's life. My wife and I encouraged our daughter at an early age, and we're excited to house the national championship of her favorite competition. Plays and concerts are fun, but this show means so much more to us. I do it for the kids."_

Robin had spent the last two days interviewing the community. Sandeep, Julie and Mrs. Danthers made the final cut. Their "fifteen seconds" were interspersed with footage of friends wiping down chairs, carrying tinfoil trays of food, marking the position for the tents, and assembling the donated light towers along the perimeter fence.

Mrs. Danthers was the only person that mentioned Brian, but it was more recognition that he needed. _"This whole thing was Mr. Cavenaugh's idea,"_ she said. _"He's such a good man! The kind of neighbor everyone wants!"_

"Awesome, Dad!" Tracy said.

Sharon hugged him. "I'm so proud of my good man."

Robin continued her monologue at dusk. The new lights were alive in the background, flaring like white starbursts on camera. _"Unfortunately, it's not all glamor and charity in the Brandywine subdivision. As anticipation builds for Monday's re-opening celebration, tragedy unfolds at the home across the street."_

Ominous music punctuated Robin's words. Brian abandoned his family's arms to lean forward. "What the..."

"What's wrong, Dad?" Tracy asked.

Robin continued. _"Kayla Reid lives within walking distance of Mr. Carmel's theater. She's a dancer who teaches her craft to children, and she is closely affiliated with William and the others here tonight. While preparations are made on the hill, Kayla prays for safety for her missing husband."_

"Oh Kayla..." Brian whispered.

"What's wrong, Dad?"

Brian spoke to Kayla through the TV. _He left you, honey. Don't make your personal affairs public..._

Kayla stood beside Robin in her front yard. _"The neighbors were all... very sweet. But I just want my husband back."_

"Brian?" Sharon said.

"I didn't know they taped this..."

"Isn't that a good thing? Maybe somebody can help."

"Hey," Tracy said and pointed to the TV. "They were right outside our house!"

Sure enough, Robin was walking alongside his patrol car, grazing the hood with her fingers. _"Hyde Whitaker was last seen fifteen days ago. Police officials say they're looking into the matter, and that they're optimistic about the situation."_

"Who the heck did she talk to? Why didn't anyone call me?"

"Honey?"

"Nobody is pursuing that case! Hyde just left!"

"Nobody told that to Robin?"

Brian covered his face with his hands. "They're gonna be pissed at the station."

"Brian Cavenaugh! Language!" Sharon paused and changed her tone. "Wait. Hyde left Kayla?"

"The night before he went missing. That's privileged information." He mashed his fingers across his cheeks then dropped them to his lap.

The story was over, but the studio anchor wrapped up the broadcast with a phone number. "If you have any information on this tragic missing person's case, please call the number at the bottom of your screen."

Brian fumbled with the remote until the screen went black.

"It was a good report, honey."

"Yeah, Dad. That was a good thing we did."

"Thanks ladies—"

The phone rang.

"That was fast," Tracy joked.

"That was the police-station number, silly girl. Not ours." Brian plucked the phone from its base.

It was the station. They had received an urgent call within seconds of the broadcast and immediately contacted the reporting officer: _him._ "Put the call through," he said and motioned _"one minute"_ to his wife.

"Hello?" It was a girl. She was crying.

"This is Officer Cavenaugh, how can I help you?"

"I... I saw the story about the missing man on TV." Her voice quivered.

"Alright, ma'am." Brian grabbed his notepad and pen from the coffee table. "Can I have your name?"

"My name? You really need that?"

"I'm afraid I do."

"Okay. My name is Baylee."

* * *

Saturday: two days to the National Championship

("But where are you going with this, Will?" a curious reader might ask, and William would say, "Not knowing is half the fun!" Like writing a novel without planning the end; watching the characters fuck themselves into holes so deep, then helping them fight their way out with a pen and half-a-brain. Would William move the body? That was a macabre thought; some horrorshow evening tiptoeing through smoke-machine fog with a twirl of the mustache and a wink to the audience, pulling the corpse through leaves and mud and moonlight to a convenient swamp where creepy-crawlies would devour the evidence. _No. Probably not._ Why hide Hyde? The man already had such a lovely tomb!)

When Sherlock appeared at the theater in full pig garb with another cop—Africa-black with a scar from a cleft lip like a question mark—William found comfort in afternoon sun, his surrounding friends, and the _clank-clank-clank_ of hammers on tent stakes. If the police had any serious reason to suspect him, they wouldn't be meeting him here.

He dropped a sandbag on tent number eight at the far left corner of the fence. "Afternoon, Sherlock," he said and wiped his brow with his bare arm; manual labor was bad enough in average temperatures.

He shook Sherlock's hand first, followed by the new guy with the crushing grip. Sherlock's voice was softer than usual; more somber. "Will, this is Officer Middleton. We'd like to ask you a few questions about your relationship with Hyde Whitaker. Do you have a place we can talk?"

(This wasn't a making-the-rounds kind of visit. Cavenaugh had a reason to suspect. _Something he forgot?_ He thought of Kay. Where. Was. That. Puddy-tat? There were no pattering footfalls; no amber eyes watching from the shadows. Did she tattle? Did Sherlock and Brother Watson know of the three-million-dollar prank that would pin a motive-to-kill donkey tail on Will's ass?)

The pair of director chairs were folded beside the fly system ropes. William bought them for the interview with Robin, but they would suit an interrogation perfectly. Cavenaugh squeezed into the chair while Officer Middleton paced along the counterweights.

"I want to thank you again for your hospitality," William said. He leaned into the chair's canvas back and crossed his legs.

"I'm going to jump right in, if you don't mind."

William lowered his legs to the footrest and leaned forward. "Of course, Sherlock. Jump away."

"You're aware that Mr. Whitaker is missing."

"I was under the impression that the whole state knew Hyde was missing."

"You don't seem concerned."

"Maybe I made a mistake in assuming you knew about certain... _troubles in paradise_."

"You knew about the separation?"

"I knew about the impending separation last year."

"Kayla asked us to keep that information quiet..."

"I can't imagine I'll slip after a year of secrecy. You can't assume he just picked up and left?"

"I made that assumption. But last night I looked over Hyde's cellphone records. William, did you call Mr. Whitaker the day he went missing?"

"I did. A minute or two at the most."

"The records indicate this was the first and only time you ever called Mr. Whitaker."

"My cellphone is only a few months old. I'm a newcomer to the twenty-first century. Before that I used my daughter's phone to make calls. If you check her records, I'm certain we spoke more than once on the phone."

"What was the reason for the call?"

"I saw Kayla get into her car that morning. She was crying. I debated calling Hyde. When I saw that he was awake, I did. Like I said, he confided in me about his marital fears several months ago. I gave him advice at the time..." William paused. "The conversation was meant to be confidential, but if you think it would help..."

"Go on."

"Our conversation was brief. Hyde said he couldn't do it anymore; he had to get away. I asked him to reconsider. I told him what a good woman Kayla was... but he refused to make it work."

"When you found out that Mr. Whitaker was missing, why didn't you report your call to the police?"

"Until now, Mr. Cavenaugh, I didn't know that I was the last person to speak to him before his disappearance."

"Did he give you any indication of where he could have gone?"

"No. If he did, I would have certainly come to you—or at least his wife—the second I heard he was missing."

"When he said he needed to get away, did he say for how long?"

"Nothing specific. Now that I think about it, he may have said, 'for a little while.'"

(William knew there was more to that phone record than Sherlock was letting on. He wasn't merely the last person to talk to Hyde before he went missing... he was the last person to talk to Hyde, _period_.) "Do you have another reason to think this is more than a desperate man trying to find a break?"

Just as Will began to assume Officer Middleton was there for intimidation purposes only, the man stepped forward. His arm bulged like a black python after dining on a pair of rats, and when he placed his hand on his partner's armrest and his fingers gripped the wood like the snake's jaws, William thought it might eat that too. His voice was deep and the divot in his upper lip squirmed as he spoke. "Did Hyde ever mention a girl named Baylee?"

"Ah, Baylee..." William said. "I suppose it was just a matter of time."

"So you know her?" Middleton asked.

"You cops are spectacular at putting me in awkward positions! If Hyde is truly missing, I want to help. But he told me about Baylee in confidence and I'd rather not betray my friend's trust."

Middleton sneered.

Sherlock took over. "Will, I mean this in the kindest way, but if you hold back pertinent information, we can make this meeting more official."

"Don't pull that Dirty-Harry shit with me, Sherlock. I'm just tryin' to do right by my neighbor. I know about Baylee, but please don't tell his wife unless it becomes absolutely necessary."

"That's our job, Will."

He faked deliberation, then confessed. "She and Hyde were having an affair."

"What do you know about the girl?" Middleton asked and relaxed his hold on the chair.

"Hyde often talked about her on our porch dates. Nineteen. College student. I feel sorry for her."

"Why is that?" Sherlock asked.

"Hyde said that she really loved him, but he just didn't return the feelings."

William could tell he sparked new controversy by the men's sideways glances.

"Hyde said that?" Sherlock asked.

"I told him to end the relationship. In fact, I asked him about it during that last phone call."

"We received a call from Baylee yesterday afternoon. She saw the news story and called the hotline. She was more than upset and swore that the last time she spoke with Mr. Whitaker, he was in his right mind."

"I can confirm Hyde's mindset. He knew exactly what he wanted. Although it now appears that he wasn't being honest with one of us."

"One last question, Will, then we'll be out of your hair."

"Anything."

"Can you describe that day to us? From the time you saw Mrs. Reid until four PM?"

( _He had no alibi!_ If Will claimed to be alone for eight hours, the suspicion would grow from there!) "I remember the day quite well. You know, a lot of artists have bad memories—"

"Mrs. Reid left at eight in the morning."

"Right. I awoke a few minutes before that. I can only assume Miss Kayla and I have similar morning routines because it's not uncommon that I see her leaving for work. I spent an hour writing. Then my daughter woke up, probably between nine and ten though it's different every morning. I helped her stretch and we practiced her ballet routine until Kayla picked her up at quarter to three—"

"You helped your daughter practice for five hours?"

"I can't say it was quite that long, but yes, approximately. Now that I think about it, Hyde's car wasn't in the driveway when Kayla picked Janie up."

"Mrs. Reid confirmed that her husband's car was gone when she picked up your daughter. What did you do when they left?"

"I went back to writing."

Cavenaugh nodded and made another note on his pad. "One last inconvenience—just to solidify your story so we won't have to bother you again—is your daughter home?"

( _Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump_ went his heart. Where was Janie _really_ that morning? Practicing dance. In her room. Like he claimed. Only he wasn't there. He was locking Hyde in the chorus room. She didn't know that. She only knew he was busy at the theater.) "You're lucky she's here! She's normally in Grand Rapids visiting her mom on weekends, but since the show's Monday, she's been helping out around the stage."

"Excellent. It'll only take a minute."

"I'll go grab her."

"Do you mind if we poke around your stage while we wait?"

( _Yes!_ he screamed. _I mind it very much!_ ) "Poke to your heart's content, gentlemen."

Cavenaugh stood and nodded to Middleton.

William didn't stick around to watch where they stuck their noses. He walked as quickly as possible without looking desperate. Between the seats, across the yard, through the gate; when the theater could no longer see him, he ran.

* * *

"I need your help. Right now."

"I'm practicing."

"Right now!" William grabbed Janie's arm and she jerked away.

"What the hell, Dad?"

"Cavenaugh's here with another cop."

"So?"

"They need to talk to you and you need to tell them I was in your room helping you practice two Fridays ago."

"What? Why?"

"Because that's what I told them I was doing."

"The day Hyde left? I was practicing alone all morning. You were at the—"

"No, I was with you. I'll explain later." He grabbed at her wrist again, but she pulled away before he could touch her.

"What did you do?"

"Janie—"

"If you don't tell me the truth right now, I'll tell them I was dancing alone."

"That's a very bad idea—"

"Then tell me why they're here."

William thought of the cops with their snouts sniffing the cement—

"You took care of our problem," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes. I did."

"How?"

"I locked him in the chorus room."

"He's still there?"

"Yes."

"Is he dead?"

"Yes."

Janie's eyes drifted shut. Her lungs filled with air, expanding her black leotard. As she exhaled, her head drifted to the side as if the music in her mind softened her spine. The leotard sucked in and presented her body in perfect form. She stiffened, her pointe shoes rose into high relevé, and her arms lifted to fifth position. She held the pose for a three heartbeats, then opened her eyes and released. She nodded once.

"We were practicing your ballet from the time you woke up until you left with Kayla." William's voice held a reverent undertone. "I made a phone call just before noon. Do you understand?"

Janie didn't respond. She stepped around William and out her bedroom door.

The hill's green blades smeared the satin of Janie's pointe shoes, staining the edges with whips of their color. She stayed five paces ahead.

"Janie," he said, but she didn't turn. "Janie!" He quickened his strides, but so did she.

She was ten paces ahead when she reached the gate. William could see the perspiration in the square of skin between her leotard straps.

Darrel Pelton and Sean Umbers attached white tarpaulin walls to a pop-up tent. They waved, but William kept his eyes trained on the distancing ballerina.

By the time he reached the front of the stage, Janie was poised on the director chair. He hoisted himself from the grass to the stage. Before he could get another word in with his daughter, Sherlock and Middleton ascended from the right-wing stairwell.

Cavenaugh glanced at Janie, then rolled his head in a short burst that told William to "come here."

Between the uphill chase and the cops snooping through the basement hall, Will's heart felt like a rabid squirrel in a cage. "How was your tour?" he asked.

"The door on the end?" Middleton asked.

"What about it?"

"What's in it?"

"That was our chorus room."

"Why is it sealed off?"

"We've never been able to use it because of faulty fire codes. It was my dream room. And it was my fault that it could never be used. I felt shame whenever I stepped foot inside. It was a beautiful room. I have pictures if you'd like to see it."

"That won't be necessary," Middleton said.

Sherlock looked again to the rigid little girl in the chair, then walked to her and slipped his arm around her shoulder. "How you doin', Miss Janie?"

William's head perked forward to better hear her reply, but her voice was too soft. As he stepped closer—rounding her chair to reveal her expression—he saw her smile. She was calm.

Will and Middleton stood on opposite sides of Sherlock, perched again on the chair. He opened his notepad. "I just have a few questions for you today, hon."

"Shoot, darlin'," Janie said.

"Do you remember two Fridays ago when Miss Kayla picked you up for dance lessons. She might have seemed upset?"

"Of course."

"Do you think you can walk me through your morning?"

"I can try."

"Excellent. What time did you wake up?"

"Dad woke me up between nine or ten. He says sleeping is for depressives and fat people. Then we ate breakfast together."

"And then what did you do?"

William forced himself to breathe. He looked at Janie and hoped she could feel his melancholy eyes on her cheek.

"We practiced my dance until Miss Kayla picked me up."

"Do you remember what time that was?"

"Quarter to three. Every Friday this summer. She has an hour break between her preschool class and my junior-senior class, so she picks me up. Sometimes we go for lunch."

"That's nice. Did you really practice with your dad for five hours?"

"More like four. Like I said, we ate breakfast first. Then we talked on the porch for a few minutes before Miss Kayla showed up." Janie broke her focus on Sherlock and looked up at Will. "My mom picks me up from the studio on Fridays and I don't get to see my dad again until Monday afternoon."

"Well, you're a very dedicated girl. Tracy only practices for an hour a night."

Janie looked back to Sherlock. "Have you seen me dance, Mr. Cavenaugh?"

"You're very good, Janie."

"You don't learn to dance like that from an hour a night. And I can't get what I need from a little-kid dance studio. Dad is the best teacher I know."

"I—"

"My ballet is my only number in the championship and it needs to be exquisite. I don't know what it takes to be a cop in a small Michigan town, Officer Cavenaugh, but art takes passion."

William maintained a rigid face, though inside he was laughing. "Janie—"

"It's okay," Sherlock said. "I know exactly what she means." He looked back to Janie. "Was there any time that morning that you remember being alone?"

Janie looked to the side, deep in thought. "No," she said. "Dad was with me the whole morning. Except for the..." She stopped. She looked to William. "Do they know the secret?" she asked.

He nodded. "They know."

"What's the secret, Janie?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, Dad told me that Mr. Whitaker stopped loving Miss Kayla. He sat me down and gave me the news a couple months ago... said he was telling me because I spent so much time with her. Said maybe I could help. I cried. Then when I heard that Mr. Whitaker was missing, I guess I just figured he left."

KA-THUNK!

Janie's eyes darted to Will.

Cavenaugh stood. "What was that?"

"Came from downstairs," Middleton added.

"I'm not sure," Will said (but knew not only _who_ it was, but precisely _what_ it was. The only object in that basement that was heavy enough to emit that terrible clang was his typewriter against a steel door. _Impossible._ Excuses flickered like a zoetrope across his mind; ways out; reasons to keep them _up_ while he went _down_.)

Cavenaugh spoke up again. "Jenna Banerjee was setting up tables when we walked downstairs. Maybe—"

"Oh!" William said, jumping on the exonerating suggestion. "Those tables can be heavy. Excuse me a moment, gentlemen."

"Take your time. We'll finish up with Janie."

He couldn't leave. He couldn't stay. He looked at his daughter again. Her legs dangled beneath the chair. "Be right back," he said and jogged to the chasm of falling steps, down them, and through the stone trench.

Jenna Banerjee was gone. The rooms were empty.

Fifteen feet away and he could already hear a whisper—real, unlike last week's Poe-tale mind-games—grating screams and a rant incomprehensible, flooding in William the realization that Hyde's week of silence didn't stem from death; he was only biding his time, saving his last hurrah for the worst possible moment and mocking Will for his misestimation of consumable fluid.

The board that controlled the theater's speakers wasn't operational yet, and too complicated for the quick fix he needed.

Another gargled scream and William pictured the Fifth Circle of hell and the River Styx where the wrathful flail on the water's surface. The cry was just loud enough to reach the top of the stairs, but the open air and commotion on stage would probably cover the moans...

Probably.

Will's laptop was in the far corner of the first changing room that had been lovingly converted into a teacher's lounge by Mrs. Banerjee. He sat on a folding chair and opened the computer, then skillfully maneuvered his finger across the track-pad. He dragged the cursor from the remote-speaker icon to the music icon, then he clicked the triangle play button.

Hyde yelled again, but this time his cry was muffled by Gershwin's illustrious piano as _"Rhapsody in Blue"_ filled the stage from the hidden baby speakers.

William adjusted the volume until the music was soft enough to be inconspicuous, but loud enough to cover the moans. He blew air through his beard with classic Lamaze technique, then caught himself and stopped. He left the changing room and barreled upstairs. He would know immediately if the policemen heard Hyde's cries.

Sherlock and Janie were folding their chairs.

"Everything okay down there?" Middleton asked.

"Cavenaugh was right; Jenna dropped a table. Things are going well up here?"

Officer Middleton leaned into William and whispered, _"Good song choice. Your theater was built for Gershwin."_

Will grinned and shook the man's hand.

"Well little lady," Sherlock said, "thank you so much for your time."

"Not a problem, Mr. Cavenaugh."

"And it's so nice that you and Tracy are hanging out again. She's been talking my ear off about the day you stopped over to hang out." He turned to William. "And Will, thank you for your cooperation. Your information narrowed down our investigation, and you may just help us find your friend. You shouldn't hear from us again on this matter."

Will nodded. "If there's anything else you need, you know where I'll be."

"I'm looking forward to opening night," said Sherlock. "I'll be patrolling the second shift."

"Then we'll see you back here in two days."

"Looks like they're predicting scattered storms. What happens if it rains?"

"We'll make that call when the time comes." William forced a toothy smile and escorted the officers to the steps at the front of the stage.

"Mr. Cavenaugh?" Janie called.

The men stopped and turned around. "Yeah, Miss Janie?"

"When Dad was building this stage two years ago, your daughter drew a series of comics that showed my family killing each other. She also payed a boy fifty dollars to kiss my scar."

* * *

"Everyone's gone?" Janie asked.

"They just left," William said.

"All the tents are up?"

"Tents, mirrors, lights, chairs... Forty-two of them."

"Good."

"It was a productive day."

"Hyde is still alive?"

William didn't flinch. "I don't know."

"But he was alive earlier today."

"Yes."

"It's wrong to kill him."

"It's too late."

"It's not. You could let him out right now and call an ambulance."

He brought Janie's comforter to her chin. "Hyde can not be forgiven for what he did. And if—"

"Dad?"

"—and if anyone tries to hurt this family like that again—"

"Dad."

"I'll do the same to them."

" _Dad._ "

"What?"

"Do you still say your prayers before bed?"

"No."

Janie picked up her pointe shoe from the nightstand. It looked like jade after the run up the hill. "I didn't think so."

"Are you confident about your ballet?"

Janie wrapped the muddy ribbon around her finger. She looked to Will, her left eye crowning the twisted flesh of her cheek. "Yes."

"Did your mom see the news?"

"Yes."

"Did she say anything?"

"She was glad you found help."

"Good."

"I need to tell her about the police."

"I know."

"That means Monday night is your last chance to get her back. She'll be at the stage for my ballet. I hope you have something planned."

"I do."

"I guess you always have something planned..." Janie spit on her finger and rubbed it against the slipper's satin.

"I have a present for you," he said.

"What for?"

He took the shoe from her hand, then reached to the base of the bed and pulled out a brand new pair of pointe shoes. They were still bound together with their ribbons. "You've been dancing in that pair for six months. The boxes are frayed and the right shank is about to give. I can't have my daughter dancing with a broken ankle."

She took them, held them, unraveled them; she brought them to her nose and breathed them. "You shouldn't have spent the money..."

"One more thing." William removed a CD that was hidden beneath his leg.

"Is that our song?"

"I used the computer to record it."

"All by yourself?"

"It's called, 'An Elegy for Miracles.'"

"Kind of pretentious."

"I thought so too." William kissed her forehead and stood.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Janie?"

He's a horrible person, but he doesn't deserve to die."

"Goodnight, Janie."

She laid back in bed and pressed the soles to her nose.

He flicked off the lights.

From the dark she said, "Goodnight, Dad."

And William closed the bedroom door.

* * *

Sunday: one day to the National Championship

(5, 6, 7, 8)

The hilltop provided a foreboding panorama of the darkness in the west. The stage, however, was still feeling the sun's temper, and Chase's armpits were soaked _(5, 6, 7, 8)._

The carts, cables, fiberglass set pieces, and boxes of merchandise were carried to the stage in an endless series of back-and-forths. Pauline stood center-stage, shouting her commands and demands and outright insults to her minions.

She had spent the morning inspecting the theater with Mr. Carmel. Chase knew his mother loved the theater, but she still had to assure herself that it was a wise investment. The championship show always drove her a little nuts. When Chase was six, a water pipe broke in a bathroom at the Chicago venue and flooded the merchandise tables with sewage. Dancers and teachers ran in every direction. Chase stood clear of the growing puddle of shit and watched his mother's eyes from across the lobby. He saw the life within them as if the leaky challenge was not something to fix, but something in which to bathe _(5, 6, 7, 8)._

Without Janie, every step was centered on a crack. Every song on the radio (in a store, _in his mind_ ) started and ended with _(5, 6, 7, 8)_. He felt anger— _actual anger—_ whenever a dancer exited to the opposite wing. He would wonder why they didn't like him, where he went wrong, why he couldn't have been a better boyfriend. He counted things. Everything. The holes in his bedroom ceiling, the bumpy pattern of stitched flowers on the airplane seats, the flashing white street lines from the Gerald R. Ford Airport to the Holliday Inn, the steps it took from the loading dock to the podium and back again, and back again, and back again... _(5, 6, 7, 8)_

The mounting ticks took their toll on his school work. When his grades dropped low enough to keep him from his sophomore year, Pauline signed him up for summer school _(5, 6, 7, 8)._

His expectations for the week were dismal. Janie made their breakup very clear. She yelled at him. She refused to see him after the day he caught her telling her father about another man's sins. She rarely responded to texts. She never answered his calls. Chase entered his fifteenth year of life crying on his bed because a birthday wasn't a birthday without Janie.

(5, 6, 7, 8!)

But all hope wasn't lost. There was a glimmer of hope in a text he received last night; four words that meant death in a healthy relationship, but provided hope in a relationship that was about to flatline: _"We need 2 talk."_

Janie found him at the peak of the afternoon heat. She was glancing down the stage-left stairwell, now blocked with yellow and black caution tape. Her form... her head, hair, hands, feet, fingers, and toes were everything Chase missed, and no other girl—no cheerleader or supermodel or chemistry parter— _could ever replace those eyes_. He started to speak, but she shushed him, then nodded to the catwalk and sauntered to the ladder.

_(5, 6, 7, 8)_ "We're supposed to get rain tomorrow," he said when they were comfortable and secure (forty-three gashes in the safety pole's black paint).

Janie didn't respond, but laid her forehead against the pole and sighed.

"Do you think our parents will cancel the show?" he asked.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Chase bounced his leg and the whole catwalk shook. "I thought you said you wanted to talk."

"I did."

"I was hoping you missed me."

Janie touched her cheek. Her nail was a paintless stub, the tip bitten, the last sliver of protein scratching against her scar.

"Janie," Chase said. "Did something happen?"

"Hmm?" Her finger fell away from her face. "How many teen ballets are there tomorrow?"

"Twelve including you and Tracy. One is a guy from Texas. He's pretty good."

"Any insider tips for me?"

He squeezed the metal bar until his hand turned white. "Yeah. The judges score harsh for the championship. No bull."

"I already knew that."

"And your dad can't sweet-talk Pauline into changing your score this time. That shit might fly at regionals, but not here." Just in case Janie missed the implication, he added, "You thought it was me who fixed your score last year. But it wasn't."

Janie didn't respond. Chase clenched the metal poll and shook it with the strength of a man. The catwalk swung and clattered against the lights. "Tell me what's going on!" he screamed.

Janie's body jostled with the platform, but she didn't attempt to brace herself.

His heart was beating against his eyelids. The tip of a thrashing batten struck a lamp, tore through its red gel, popped the bulb, and showered the floor with glass.

Pauline marched to center-stage below their feet. "Chase Woodstock! Get your butt down here and unload this truck!"

He ignored his mom and turned to Janie. "Look at me," he said.

She snapped her head and made direct eye contact for the first time today. The wobbling grid framed her face _so much like a princess_ that the juxtaposition was trippy. "I'm going crazy, Janie. I'm afraid for you."

"There's nothing you can do."

"Why?"

"Because you're..."

"What? Say it."

"Normal."

" _Normal?_ Do you have any clue what goes on in my head?"

"If you ever knew what I did..." Janie whispered. _"What I let happen..."_

"What did you do? Janie?" Her gaze drifted away and he grabbed her chin. "Whatever it is, you need to tell me. I can't forgive you if I don't even know what happened!"

"Chase!" Pauline shouted again. "Grab that girl and get your asses down here!"

The grid settled into a gentle sway. Chase released Janie's chin. Her eyes showed no threat of tears.

"Tomorrow night," she said, "You think I'll do a good job?"

(5, 6, 7, 8)

* * *

Monday: The Sparkle Motion National Championship

The shadow of the storm turned the visible world light-green and William saw his Theater as if he was peering through an emerald pendant. The evening was so peaceful a scream could be heard for miles.

He could smell the approaching rain.

For the last nine hours, The Stage played it safe. Children danced. Judges judged. Parents clapped. By noon the audience had grown from forty to one-hundred-and-fifty, barely filling the first five rows.

It was seven o'clock now, two hours before Janie's dance. For every person that asked about a rain delay, thirty more arrived with parkas, umbrellas, or trash bags. The spectators trudged single-file up the stairs to The Theater's front gate, fighting banality-withdrawals from another paper-shredder Monday, knowing, hoping, _praying_ there was something on this hill to disturb the soul.

William sat atop his director's chair in the bed of Betty's truck, just outside the perimeter fence. Divorce papers—crisp, clean, stapled in the corner, and hand-delivered that morning by certified mail—were discarded like the Sunday Funnies across Betty's hood.

Sarah refused to hand them over in person. She thought he would make a scene. Janie told him the rules were the same as last time: _stay backstage while Mom's in the audience._

Mom was in the audience now. She sat beside her brother-in-law in the third row, and Will laughed when he thought of Slick Rick offering Sarah his protection.

The sun found a breach in the darkness and used the opportunity to release a storybook shaft of golden light onto the hill. The audience cheered and opened their palms to catch the rays. William lifted his head. His brow curled over his eyes as he glared at the gap. The cloud understood its mistake, quenched the beam, and submerged the audience back in green-tinted shadow.

William smiled at his accomplishment and ran his tongue along his smooth upper lip, no longer hindered by snarled growth. He shaved that morning. He was new. Open. Ready.

_But not quite yet._ Pacing is vital to a story and the characters were still falling into place.

He rummaged through his tool kit and found his binoculars, loose sticks of cinnamon gum, and a packet of sunflower seeds. He popped a seed in his mouth, sucked the salt, then shelled it with his teeth and tongue. Through the binoculars he watched a magnified view of the turnstile at the front gate, spinning with every new attendee. The Stage brandished its black magic while word of Hyde's disappearance lured them in. (It was almost as if the town's collective consciousness knew The Stage and the missing man were linked.)

Thunder erupted in the West, not a crash, but a low rumble like the warning growl of a nervous watchdog. The wind was already there, shivering the blades of grass and upsetting the emerald tranquility.

The tents wouldn't be filled to full capacity tonight as most of the numbers were solos and duets. Any leftover tents would become general shelter in case of rain, but with the growing audience spilling into the picnic area, tents would be as worthwhile as lifeboats on the Titanic. At least the mob of Good Samaritans foresaw the wind and zip-tied the tents to the fence. The nearest pop-up was only thirty feet from Betty's hood. Light seeped through the cracks where the tarpaulin walls failed to meet. Inside, a group of children were transforming into birds or angels or comic-book heroes.

The Sparkle Motion gift Shop was three tents long. Although Pauline's company shipped their chintzy toys from Tennessee, William interspersed his own items along the shelves. There were t-shirts, ballerina teddybears, prayer candles with the image of the Virgin Mary, stress balls shaped like pointe shoes, sparkly "diva" pins, resin crosses, rosary-beads, matchbox cars (and other distractions for little brothers), headbands, boob tape, mason jars filled with holy gravel from the stables, bobby pins, hairspray, flowers for the winners, flowers for the losers, and limited edition replicas of William's original blueprints. After watching the alter grow in the stables, William couldn't neglect his pious guests who yearned for spilt blood and the occasional relic.

His cell buzzed against the truck's roof. _Pauline again._

The receiver crackled with a barrage of static and Will held the phone an inch from his ear. "We took the cameras down!" she shouted.

"I saw that," he said.

"What?"

"I said I saw that!" he yelled over the wind.

"Do you know how much I'm losing in DVD sales?"

"Twenty bucks?"

"Thousands! But it's trivial! If we stop the show now, we'll need to refund the dances and we'll lose ten times that!"

"Embrace it, Pauline!"

"Are you kidding me? Is that a joke, Will? I'm having the time of my life!"

"That's what I like to hear!"

"So you wanna keep 'er chuggin'?"

"Come rain or hellfire!"

"Then buckle your seatbelt, pardner!"

A stream of girls in silver-sequined dresses charged from the closest tent, hugging their tap shoes with one arm and holding down their hair with the other. They bolted through the picnic-area spectators and fought the wind to The Stage.

William dumped a handful of seeds to his hand and pushed them in his mouth. With every gnashed seed, his mind inched toward that artist utopia where ideas interweave into "the big picture."

He checked the time _. So close._

He stood. He touched his toes. He reached to the sky until his his sternum popped.

The tidy stack of divorce papers ripped easily down the center, then into quarters, then shreds. William sprinkled the flakes of paper over the side of the truck to dissolve with the impending rain. If tonight went as planned, divorce papers wouldn't be necessary. He had papers of his own to deliver.

The night pulled a wraithlike shroud between the hill and the heavens, sending Cavenaugh and the other guards rushing to the light towers. The minutemen lit each unit manually, splashing white, shadowless light over the spectators.

If the lights had been pointing in William's direction, he might have recognized Baylee sooner. Instead, he scrutinized the murky apparition that was gliding up the dark side of the hill and wondered if it was a lost child or a Brandywine resident looking for a shortcut. He stood to assert his authority. But when her face distinguished itself from the gloom, his heart leapt and his mind—like Dr. Frankenstein's buzzing machine with bolts of blue electricity and whistling steam—clamored to sort out the possibilities of her arrival.

As Baylee approached, Will realized she wasn't gliding; she was stumbling. The wind tugged her jacket and he imagined her tipping and rolling down the hill like a tumbleweed. She wasn't wearing makeup. Her eyelids were peeled back and clamped as if a single blink would seal them forever.

She was high; something more than weed. Something... pharmaceutical perhaps?

"Are you lost, little lady?" William asked.

She looked up to the truck. "I'm looking for Hyde Whitaker."

"Aren't we all?"

"Can you help me?"

"What's your name?"

"Baylee. I'm Baylee. I'm a friend." Her voice was lower than Will remembered from the video chats. She spoke with a rasp.

" _Hyde's_ Baylee?" he asked.

The pretend revelation seemed to surprise the girl. Her eyeballs flicked to the side of their bowls, then snapped back. "He told you about me?"

"I'm William. That's my house you just passed, and this is my Theater."

"You're Will! Hyde said he didn't tell anybody about me!" Her smile seemed painful but genuine. "I had to come. But I've been so afraid."

Will unlatched the tailgate and slid off the back of his truck. Baylee was no taller than his chest.

She grabbed his lapel. "I couldn't sit at home anymore. I had to see this wasn't some horrible joke." She looked like she was about to cry, but the wind already dried her unblinking eyes.

"You might find what you're looking for inside," he suggested.

"I know what that Stage is. I know that _she_ is a teacher here."

"Who?"

Baylee growled, _"Her."_

Thunder. Closer now and the ominous _nothing_ finally revealed itself as black cut-out clouds layered against violet flashes. The lighting stopped and the clouds disappeared, though their presence lingered overhead.

"Can I please go in?" she asked.

William stepped to his secret passage but blocked the gate. "What can you pay me?"

"Pay you? Please Mr. Carmel. I don't have much money."

"Surly you have something to offer for my services."

Baylee patted her shorts and the pockets of her jacket. She studied William—it was the first time she appeared focused—then removed a bottle of Asprin. "I have oxy or valium. There's pot in the car but please don't make me go back down."

The bottle confirmed what he already knew.

He laughed. "It was a joke, dear! Put your medicine away and enjoy the show!"

Baylee nodded and stepped through the open gate. William let it slam behind her. Without another word, she ambled right down the center of the field. Will knew the girl had already forgotten where she was and how she got there, blindly following that whispering name that haunted her mind, _Hyde Hyde Hyde Hyde Hyde._

Baylee's arrival added an unexpected notecard for William's mental cork board. With a little restructuring of the plot, the card could fit perfectly.

He climbed onto Betty's tailgate, stepped past his chair, planted one foot on the truck's ledge, and hoisted himself to the roof of the cab. From here he could see the growing checkerboard of blankets on the grass.

He felt the lightning. He stood straight, raised his arms, and _there it was!_ One string tied to his right hand! A shimmering strand that extended over the fence and across the field to a knot at the top of Baylee's head.

Will closed his eyes and the thunder collapsed. He could feel the vacuum tugging his collar.

When he opened his eyes, the single string had become seven. One for each finger; one for each puppet.

_This was William's art._ This was the only way left to experience the rush of originality! The night was his canvas. The hill was His Stage! Here, amongst his creation and his story and his will, _he was God._ The drama behind that gate was a _William Carmel Production._

Setting aside four-thousand dollars of the home-equity loan was _creativity._ Handing the money to an old Chicago friend with a habit of starting fires... that was _drama._ Staying on the phone to assure the job was properly executed; _passion!_ Janie's fake sobs to Tracy _(collaboration!)_ , or his anonymous call to the Channel Six News _(biographers!)_ ; they not only furthered the advertising and amplified the danger, but those cameras would stand witness to his genius.

Sure there were happy accidents along the way. Charlie Arson's fire was only meant to secure Will's Theater for the National Championship. He had no previous intention of becoming partners with Pauline! But after this week, _that's exactly what he would be_. When Janie "cried" to Tracy about the tents and security guards, he wasn't expecting _It's a Wonderful Life_! But the neighbor's brought gifts anyway.

Isn't that where true art lies? Within those happy accidents?

Will sucked in his chest, waved his fingers, and the marionettes performed his bidding. The first drop of rain found the back of his neck and he knew it was time to begin.

* * *

(But as William stood tall atop his truck and conducted his play in the rain, he overlooked one silver strand laying limp in the grass... one cord that should have been tied to a missing finger... one person who escaped his control...)

**TWELVE - The Silence and the Storm: A Parable**

"Son of a bitch! Go around him!"

"I can't. And watch your mouth around our daughter."

"Sarah, I swear to God..."

"You swear to God, what?"

"If something happens to Chall..."

"I'm driving as fast as I can."

Daddy's face was red from the lights of the other cars. "I can't believe we left her," he said.

Janie used to hate storms, but not anymore. The slapping rain on the car's window was more exciting than scary, and she pressed her hand to the glass to see if she could feel the drops. A crack of lightning scared it back between her legs.

It was her fault that Challo was stuck in that cage in the storm. If she didn't have that stupid recital, they would be home right now to let the dog inside and Mom and Dad wouldn't be fighting and saying things like "bitch" and "swear to God."

Daddy rolled down his window and stuck his head out like Challo sometimes did. When Mom pulled him back in, his hair was wet.

"I'm going as fast as the cars will let me," she said.

"Why did we go out tonight?"

"We didn't know a storm was coming."

"We should have left early."

"She's going to be okay, honey."

"She's blind, Sarah... I can't even imagine..."

The wind made the rain sound louder while the lightning kept coming faster and scarier.

Challo was an "old girl" Daddy always said. And a "good pup." Now he put his head against the window and closed his eyes and Mom put her hand on his leg. He put his hand on top of hers and squeezed it.

When they got out of the traffic and made it to their neighborhood, Mom made the whole car bounce over the speed bumps and Janie would have hit her head if she wasn't buckled up. When they pulled in the driveway, Daddy didn't wait for the car to stop, but jumped into the rain as fast as he could and ran through the dark front yard to Challo's cage. Janie couldn't see him way out there, but she heard him talking to his good pup, telling her that he was home and that the thunder wasn't something to be afraid of.

The next day the storm was over but it left behind leaves and twigs all over the grass.

Challo was sleeping in. Dad said the storm made her tired. Now she was laying in the yard getting warm in the sun while Mom planted flowers by the porch and Daddy mowed the lawn on his big mower.

Janie make-believed she was a doctor. The thunder made Challo very sick and now she couldn't sleep. Janie had just the thing. She found a green leaf, the kind that makes dogs feel better, and fed it to Chall. The old girl didn't chew it, but let it sit in her mouth. Janie inspected her eyes next... still cloudy and sleepy. The special leaf wasn't making it any better at all!

A thousand times Janie had pulled his tail. Sarah and William would joke about Challo's tolerance, about her affection, about how she watched over their daughter despite the playful abuse. But William's mower found a rock that morning and flung it into the wood siding of the house at the exact moment that Janie tugged the dog's tail. Challo curled like a king cobra and snapped.

Her cheek tore easily in the jaws of the dog, and Challo bit Janie a second time before the girl remembered to scream. The blood looked like chocolate syrup on Challo's fur, but spilled like crimson down Janie's chin and shoulder.

Mommy was running. Her mouth was yelling but Janie couldn't hear the words over the lawnmower. Challo was already sorry and licked her feet, but Mom reached the dog, grabbed her, and jerked her away.

Janie's face stung against the shoulder of Mom's t-shirt and the cut got warmer. Daddy finally stopped the lawnmower and ran to Janie first, then to his good pup. He was shouting—so was Mom—but Janie didn't really hear what they were saying. All she could think about was Daddy's hand squeezing Challo's neck instead of her collar. Challo bucked her body and shook her head, but Dad kept holding on.

The last thing Janie saw before Mom carried her inside was Daddy dragging his old girl behind the stables.

* * *

Even the lightning tried to stop Janie's dance. It webbed and pealed thick ivory streaks in a terrifying display of power.

The thunder brought her back to that car ride home to save Challo from the storm. She remembered the gunshot behind the stables; the way that sudden blast made her body jolt in her mother's arms.

The loading gallery was Janie's favorite hiding spot in The Theater. The black metal walkway was similar to the catwalk, but not as high. She plucked a taut rope from the fly system, then observed the chaos below her feet. Chase was organizing a large group of Barbie dolls beside their neon-pink, life-sized boxes. Stage dads helped him roll the props into position and the girls stepped inside their individual containers.

Janie held her new pointe shoes against her nose and relished the smell of clean satin. They would smell worse than armpits by the end of the night, and the rest of their lives would be spent zipped in her backpack or smushed between bruised feet and the dance floor.

Her personal assortment of tools sat on the steel mesh beside her leg; scissors, floss, a lighter, cotton wrap, a spool of elastic, and a tomato pincushion with a single needle piercing its fabric skin.

She began by cutting the ribbon into four pieces, then sucked the minty tip of the floss to better thread the needle.

The old shoes were green now; sick from six months of repressed guilt. These new shoes were pure. They didn't understand her past. They didn't give a damn about speakers or secrets or Hyde screaming her name in dreams... or dropped chocolate bars.

She found the same curve where the ribbon best fit her foot, positioned the pink strips, then needled the floss in and out and in and out. She tugged her handiwork to insure the strength of the stitch, then began on the next ribbon and vowed to be a better person.

Janie sparked the lighter and held the fire at eye level, then carefully brought the end of each ribbon to the flame and singed the fray into a crusty line of plastic. Tonight, she would crush the competition. She would do so well that Dad wouldn't need to fix her scores anymore. She wouldn't let anyone—including Chase—distract her.

She flipped over the shoes. She grabbed the scissors (lefties, her dad's), then pressed the blade into the tip of the box. Again and again her little hands cut scratches into the pointe, deeper each time until she rubbed the slipper's tip and it felt _right_. She squeezed the toe to the heel until the shank cracked.

Janie winced. She flexed them, broke them, hammered them and hid herself from God with her anger. He hated her because she didn't believe in miracles. He hated her because she didn't rescue Hyde.

She pulled off her sneakers and tossed them aside. She rolled her socks into perfect circles and grimaced when they brushed a bruise ( _"Be strong for Daddy,"_ he said in the ambulance after Challo died) and shoved them in her sneakers.

Janie had six toenails left. The other piggies were bare stubs of flesh with the imprints of a bygone nails. Some dancers used toe pads, but not professionals. Professionals used cotton wrap. Janie used cotton wrap.

The shoes were a perfect fit. She wrapped the ribbons in opposite directions around her ankles, overlapping them into a cross at the front. She knotted both strands, then tucked the knots away.

Janie wiggled her toes into the box. After hours of dancing, the papier-mâché square would form to the unique shape of her toes, and the shoes would become hers.

The new Janie would squash any little-girl thoughts... but she remembered the divorce papers and one slipped by: _If I dance well enough, will Mom come back?_

_Be strong for Daddy_ she remembered.

Janie stood tall on the platform and lifted herself to a high relevé, molding her toes to the stiff box and relinquishing herself to the pain.

* * *

(8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1)

(8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1)

Everything was a countdown. The seconds to the end of songs, the steps from right-wing to left, the words in the teachers' complaints; Chase would predict the end, then count backwards from eight. If he was more than a second off, he pinched himself in the leg.

Janie was hiding above the other dancers. _Above him_. Whatever she was deliberating, she would have to deal with it alone.

(8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1)

The town's inhabitants were gathered in a crescent around The Theater, roaring with the thunder, unaware that The Stage was binding them in the glow of its electric foot-candles. Chase had never witnessed such a massive crowd at a Sparkle Motion show. Every spectator couldn't possibly be related to a dancer... only a handful of the kids were from Michigan, and only teachers and dedicated parents made the cross-country trip. But why would anyone else show up?

The judges looked like a row of condoms in their clear raincoats. Four of them seemed ready to snap because Pauline refused to call off the show. Lorrie, however, smiled and bopped her head to every song. The judges scored each dance by hand instead of computer, then gently filed each scoresheet into plastic bags to be sorted and tallied before Friday's ceremony.

April May's station was reassembled on stage-left during a break, though it didn't make communication with Chase any easier.

"Ha! _Ha ha ha!_ "

Chase twirled around. The laughter was coming from a Barbie Girl, bending over and holding her kneecap. _Crap._ "Are you hurt, hon?" he asked.

The girl laughed harder.

He bent down and held her leg. She removed her hand from her knee to reveal gashed tights with a splinter jutting like a fence post from her kneecap.

(8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1)

A stage dad barged through the back door. "The fucking parking lot is flooded!"

"There are kids back here!" Chase yelled, then pulled up a chair for the bleeding dancer.

"Is somebody gonna get my trailer outta the mud?" the man yelled.

The Barbie song ended _(5, 6, 7, 8)_ and the red phone light beckoned Chase as thirteen pink girls skipped off stage-right (they loved him!) "Hold on," Chase told the man. "Just a second, hon," he told the girl. "What?" he asked April over the phone.

"The Stage is soaked! Run the broom!"

"What's a broom gonna to do?" He slammed the phone before she could answer, grabbed his sweeper, and stepped to The Stage while the dads rolled off the giant Barbie boxes.

(One step, two steps, three steps, four steps...) The crowd cheered. Through the gusts and pelting sprinkles, they clapped and screamed and whistled for Chase.

"We love you, stage manager!" a group of girls yelled from the front row.

When Chase returned to the wing with a sopping broom, Pauline was waiting with a piece of paper. "It's a drop form," she said.

"Only one?" he asked. "Even with the storm?"

"Mark her off your list."

Chase let the broom smack the podium, then grabbed the sheet from his mother, found his first-aid kid, yelled "Fireflies, you're next!" and rushed a tweezers and three bandaids to the injured girl. "Think you can pull it out?"

"Uh huh." Her hair was frazzled. Maybe she was struck by lightning.

April May: "Next up, we have competitive lyrical, all ages! Please welcome 'Boston Bugs' performing _'Fireflies!'_ "

(5, 6, 7, 8)

"Pauline!" Chase shouted before his mother could run off. "This man says his car's stuck. Give him a hand."

He flipped through his files and found a wrinkled accident report. He stooped down to the girl, took the tweezers and put them in his teeth, then helped her adhere the third bandaid. "You need to fill this out," he mumbled between the tweezers.

"Yes sir," Pauline said and took the accident report.

Chase stood.

"Give it to her, Kennedy!" yelled a pirate to a girl on stage.

"The rain only started ten minutes ago," Pauline explained to the pissed-off stage dad. "Just gun your engine. Works every time."

Janie _(Janie...)_ descended the corner ladder in sparkling pointe shoes. She practiced a spin and strode easily through the cluster of Barbie dads, then out of view.

Chase leaned his back against the front drape. Arms at his side, he pinched the edges of the curtain and turned around until he was standing in his own personal cave.

The music was reduced to thumping bass. He counted the thumps.

There was a new thought; a certain insight that Chase had been trying to articulate since the beginning of the storm; an observation that became clearer as he coiled in the darkness. The backstage chaos—the madness and undulating insanity—became _beauty_ on this Stage. The storm wasn't hindering the dancers, _it was energizing them._ Ambition soared with the wind. Thunder spurred the pulsating spirit of cut-throat competition. _These dancers were out for blood._ No parent would be able to pry their child from their moment on The Stage.

When Chase unspooled from his tepee, the monster was waiting. The fur on his face was gone, and the uninhibited clarity of his expressions— _that man they call Will_ —frightened Chase to his core. Whatever Janie was hiding, it was _this man's_ fault.

Chase pulled himself from William's scrutiny and marched to the podium and checked his clipboard. "Material Girls! You're up!" The group was listed as "Kayla's Dance Studio," but Kayla and Janie weren't backstage to watch.

He spun around and marched to Will. Before he could open his mouth, the man grinned and extended his balled fist. Chase paused, then instinctively opened his hand beneath it. William released a clump of wet sunflower shells into his palm.

April May: "Next up, we have competitive modern, all ages. Please welcome 'Material Kids' performing 'Material Girl!'"

(5, 6, 7, 8)

"Looking forward to Janie's ballet, Mr. Stage Manager?" William asked.

(8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1)

(8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1)

Chase snapped his wrist. The shells hit the floor and scattered. "You bring out the worst in Janie, Mr. Carmel. I don't know what you did to her—"

"What exactly did my daughter say, Mr. Chase?"

"Nothing yet. But she was about to tell me what you've been making her hide."

"Hyde?"

"I know my mom likes you as a business partner. That's because she's out of her mind." Chase pointed his finger at William's chest. "If one thing goes wrong tonight, or if Janie gives me any indication of what you did, I'll make sure we never see your crappy Stage again."

Will removed his bag of seeds and poured some in his hand. "I like you, Mr. Chase," he said. "I'll see you for Janie's ballet in thirty?"

Chase shook his head and turned away.

"Oh, and Mr. Chase? I choreographed my daughter's dance. I wrote her music. And I can promise you, _she exits on my side._ "

Janie told her dad about his ticks.

William sauntered backwards through the hustle and bustle of incoming dancers. He dumped the seeds in his mouth and disappeared into the pandemonium.

The phone's red light flashed as the wing filled with twenty-five goatherds and stage dads carrying plywood trees. Across The Stage, Miss Kayla unfurled herself from a Theater drapery and watched her students with sleepy eyes. Beside her, April May glared at Chase and pointed urgently at her phone. The rain threw a fresh torrent of water on the thrashing Material Girls. A bolt of lightning. A crack of thunder. Another little girl tugged on his sleeve... and Chase wanted to cry.

* * *

The other teachers were flustered, red in the face, and tripping over each other as if the falling water gave them an excuse for drama.

Kayla ignored them. She ignored the muttering blonde announcer. She forgot about the rain. She fixed her attention on The Stage and her only large group number of this championship show.

Her kids were fierce. Their timing was impeccable. Janie's choreography was edgy and intoxicating and found new life amongst the storm. Kayla was proud of her girls.

There was Noah. Thirteen. Born in March. She has a pet turtle and hates Chinese food. Four dances in last month's regionals.

Janqulin. Eight. Born in November. Takes Aderrall for mild ADD. Two dances in last month's regionals.

Hannah B. Fifteen. Born in September. She was a straight-A student except for biology. Six dances in last month's regionals.

Kayla knew them all. Every student, every parent, every pet. She selected the songs they liked. She gave out suckers during preschool lessons. She threw pizza parties in her own home for the older kids. She helped her seniors with boy problems...

But did she ever really _inspire_ anyone? Would her students remember Miss Kayla for her passion _?_ Or would they tell stories about the teacher who threw up on the first day of class; who always came late because she needed a pillow in her face to stop crying.

Even tonight The Theater kept her strong. The bandshell asked her to find herself in its walls, to remember that the prank happened for a reason. The floor clamored with children's footfalls and told her of its ability to separate the wheat from the shaft; and her husband didn't make the cut. The velour drapery rippled in the wind and whispered secrets, telling her that life would continue without Hyde; that teaching dance to lovely kids wasn't a bad alternative.

But she would give it all up to have him back.

The thunder pummeled the bandshell in response: _Stay strong, Kayla. You'll be okay._

In its feeble attempt to "stay strong," her mind developed a defense mechanism that employed a disorienting tunnel vision to block out unnecessary pain. So when William Carmel approached her from behind the fiberglass set and squeezed her shoulder with his hooked fingers, her periphery world faded to black and she stood with the man in nothingness.

"I love this Stage," she said.

"How are you holding up?"

She shrugged. "I don't see demons at your Theater anymore. I did before, but now they're gone."

"Demons aren't real, honey."

"You're very naive." She tilted her head and grinned.

"How are you dealing with your missing husband?"

Kayla's head remained on tilt, but her smile faded. "Sometimes I feel like he's here." Her eyes scanned the blackness of the nothing where they stood. "Was it you, Will?" She kept her eyes moving. "Did Hyde tell you about the prank and you murdered him?"

"No, Kay. I've known about the prank for months."

Her eyes caught his. "I see." Her head nodded. "I'm sorry, Will."

"Child," he said, " _I forgive you."_

"I've been waiting for two years to hear those words."

"I should have said them sooner."

Kayla looked at her feet and shook her head.

"I have gifts for you," he said.

"What are they?"

"They're presents that will help you move on."

"Oh?"

"Do you want to move on?"

( _Stay strong, Kayla_ , said the catwalk bars. _You'll be okay.)_

"Yes," she said.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Are you ready for gift number one?"

"Yes."

"I'm working on a new project. It's a secret right now, but when Pauline takes over management, I'm going to need dancers and teachers."

"Oh?"

"I thought of you for both."

"How sweet!"

"We'll finally be able to use our talents to _inspire_. Can you help me when the time comes?"

She nodded. "It sounds amazing."

"Are you ready for gift number two?"

"Yes."

"I want you to watch me when I walk away. Can you do that?"

She nodded.

"I'm going to walk out the front of The Theater and into the audience. The next girl you see me approach will be the girl that Hyde was sleeping with when he went missing."

The nothingness vanished. Kayla was at The Stage with the storm, the slipping girls, and the blaring music. The audience chirped for the Material Girls and Kayla remembered the locusts. She remembered Hyde as the beast from the Earth and William as the dragon. Her breath quickened. A hummingbird lodged itself in her heart and could not escape.

"Breathe, honey," Will said.

She couldn't. She tried. She closed her eyes and remembered her first pair of pointe shoes, the Best in Category award she received for her last dance as a senior, her seventy-eight-year-old ballet teacher who could strip down to a rhinestone necklace without a hint of shame. The Stage helped her access the memories, but as her dancers bowed and exited on the opposite side, Kayla belched and vomited at William's feet.

"Ew!" screamed a boy dressed as a groom.

"Cool!" said his bride.

The announcer rolled her eyes and phoned the stage manager. "Get over here," she said. "Bring your bucket."

Kayla wiped her mouth with her arm.

William stepped over the puddle and embraced her. "I need you to stay calm. I wouldn't tell you this if you couldn't put it to good use."

Kayla pushed him away and spoke with her eyes, _What do you mean?_

As he explained, the tunnel vision returned.

"Her name is Baylee. Right now— _tonight_ —she's carrying a bottle of illegal prescription drugs in her pocket. Her car is parked outside of your house with marijuana in the glove box; probably other paraphernalia as well. Find Brian Cavenaugh, tell him you noticed a girl offering questionable pills to the teenage dancers; that'll give him probable cause to search her person. When he finds the pills, he'll have cause to search her car by your house. If he does that, the succubus who stole your husband will be arrested."

Kayla nodded again in the blackness. "And there will be one less demon on our Stage."

* * *

The euphoria was wearing thin and the feeling of "all-is-well-with-the-world" was draining from Baylee's lower eyelids and melding with the rain. The storm began as a symphony of drums—cymbals, a rolling timpani—and the rain was warm and smelled like summer camp. But now the lightning snapped and the drops stung _and nobody seemed to care._

She opened the bottle of oxy; enough left to get her through July. She popped one dry.

Would one do the trick?

She popped another, then sealed the bottle. When she found Hyde, she would throw the rest away. And the weed. She didn't want it anymore. Hyde would be enough.

She weaved between the tents. They were full. Some had a single open flap and she could see the people hiding from the storm without losing sight of The Stage. She imagined a bolt of lightning stemming crooked from the tallest post... and the huddled spectators charred below.

Hyde was supposed to visit her mom. Baylee needed her mother to know she wasn't a screw-up; that she could do things right. Hyde was a good man. He was loving and gentle and kind. Mom would be proud.

Official news of his disappearance was as relieving as it was terrifying. _He still loved her!_ Wherever he was, _he was thinking about her!_ Until Jank called to tell her The Theater was on Channel Six, she thought Hyde had abandoned her; that he was ignoring her calls, laughing and showing her texts to his loving wife.

Before the news displayed the hotline number, there was nobody for Baylee to call. Hyde didn't have any close family. And no one knew about their relationship! How many times she packed her car and sat outside her apartment with the key in the ignition _but just couldn't do it_. If Hyde didn't want her, she wasn't going to change his mind by stalking him. If something was actually wrong, she wouldn't be able to help!

And what if she showed up at his house and _she_ answered the door? _(And what if she was kind?)_

The pills weren't working; her brain was still telling her that this was a stupid place to search for Hyde. When the "all-is-well-with-the-world" returned, she would search the tents with confidence; she would know that everything would be okay.

If tonight's search was fruitless, Baylee had a Plan B. If Hyde didn't turn up, she'd find a highway rest stop. She'd get fucked up. There was a dime bag of weed and a bottle of hydrocodon syrup in the glove compartment. Shirts over the windows, curled in the back seat, _save the pain for another day._

"Hey there sweet girl."

Baylee's heart jumped at the sentiment. But it was only William standing behind her in the pouring rain. His hair was stringy and the color of stone. He was handsome; she didn't realize it as he stood in his truck, but now the lights accentuated his features and...

The oxy was finally kicking in.

"Baylee?" he said, loud enough to pierce the weather.

"Hey there!"

"How's the search?"

She took a step closer and he did the same. His broad shoulders became a shield and now they could talk without shouting.

"I'm not going to find him, am I?" She sounded pathetic.

"No. You're not. Did you know that I was the last person to talk to Hyde before he disappeared?" William was calm. He sounded like the guy who does voiceovers for truck commercials.

"Really?" she asked. Her face was three inches from his chest.

"Do you know the last thing he told me before he drove away?"

"What was it?"

"We were talking about you. He got in his car and rolled down his window—"

"What did he say?" she pleaded.

William lowered his lips to her ear until it was just the two of them in the downpour. _"He told me that you're wicked."_

"No he didn't."

"Hyde looked at me and he told me that he could never love such a wicked girl. He said he wanted you to repent."

Baylee tried to swallow, but it wouldn't go down. "Repent? For what?"

"Your perversions."

Her eyes waned and her head drifted to her shoulder as the pills took full effect.

"Cyber sex. Phone sex. Video sex. You met a married man in person and had intercourse."

In her head, Baylee shoved the old man to the ground and stepped on his throat. In reality, her tear ducts swelled and her eyes turned red, but her body didn't move. "He told you that?"

"You abuse drugs. You abuse alcohol."

Baylee rolled her head back and opened her eyes. Her arms were around William's back.

"You're a temptress. You're a home wrecker. You're a whore."

"I don't understand," she said. Her eyes burned.

William's face was framed by the expanse of night and crowned with a silent web of lightning. "Baylee," he said, _"you will be punished for your sins."_

* * *

"I love you Sarah!"

_Dear God in Heaven_ , she prayed, _get him away from me!_ But Sarah Huggins forgot... God would never step foot in this place.

"Sarah," William said from the end of her row and loud enough for other parents to hear. "I love you!"

"I'll get rid of him," Rick growled and began to stand.

"I can handle it." She touched his wet arm and he sat back down. "I'll be right back."

"Take the umbrella?"

"You keep it. I don't mind the rain."

Rick nodded and Sarah stood. She worked her way through the line of spectators until she reached her husband, clean shaven, gripping a stack of pages too thick to be the Summons and Complaint.

"Will," she said when she reached him, "I told Janie that I won't see you tonight."

"Don't blame our daughter. It was my idea."

"She dances in nine minutes. What do you want?"

"I wanted to know what you think."

"About what?"

"The competition! We got the National Championship! Pretty amazing?"

Sarah wanted to tell him that she completely disapproved of tonight's competition; that it was nuts to let children dance in a storm. She wanted to force him to sign the divorce papers right now with no questions asked...

_...but it was good to see him._ "It's quite the show, Will," she said. "We can talk about the papers another time—"

He held out the document. It was wrapped in two large baggies and duct-taped shut. "It's our story," he said. "It's a stage play."

She accepted the manuscript and the rain pattered the plastic. "A play?"

"Slightly exaggerated, of course... for dramatic effect. I want you to play the lead."

Sarah shook her head. "I'm not coming back to you, Will—"

"Do you remember when I came to visit you in the library?"

She couldn't have this conversation. Not in the storm. Not at The Stage!

"It was the day I screwed up. I admitted my failure and apologized."

"Of course I remember."

"I quit everything the night you left me. The drugs, the drinking, the lies... For six months I worked on becoming a better person. And I did! For twenty-five years I stayed a good husband to you. And for fourteen years I stayed a good father. It's all in the play!"

"In the play? Do you really think I'm going to act in your play?"

"You play yourself! It'll be brilliant! It's the ultimate expression of creativity! My family, my Theater, my writing, my piano..."

Sarah shook her head and pushed the script into his chest. "I'm not like you, Will. I wanted to be an actress when I was twenty. But then God gave me a family, and that was enough for me."

William pushed the script back into her hands. "It's not about the play. Don't you see, honey? It happened again! You gave me those same six months. And it worked! I know I messed up. I know lied. I was a bad husband and a terrible father. _But I changed._ I changed for myself and I changed for you. I came to terms with my insanity and I've accepted my role in making things worse."

"I—"

"There's more."

Sarah couldn't possibly handle more.

"When you flip to the back of the script there's another document."

"What is it?"

"It's a business plan for The Theater. It outlines the new management system with Pauline Woodstock as my partner. After tonight, she handles the business end. No more missed opportunities."

"Will—"

"Do you remember my baptism in Lake Michigan? Tonight can be my second rebirth. Tonight can be a start of a new era with you and me and Janie."

Her heart leapt at the thought, but she couldn't let him think she would reconsider—

"Just take the script. If you don't want to act, I'll make it into a book. And I promise you, I won't go crazy this time." He smiled that same shit-eating smile.

Oh Will... why do you do this!

Sarah feared the answer to her next question... but she leaned forward.

William took the cue and lowered his ear to her level.

"Hyde's disappearance..." she said. "Was it you?"

He pulled away. He placed his hands on her shoulder and squeezed. "No, my darling."

She studied his eyes for a moment longer. She could always tell when he lied. The white lights revealed every pore on her husband's face... _but_ _he was genuine._

She forced her eyes to her watch. "Six minutes until Janie's dance. You better check on her."

"What about us?"

"There is no 'us,' Will. Not until we talk about it."

His cheeks pulled back and he grinned. "I love you, Sarah. You don't have to say it back."

She wouldn't. But she did.

* * *

Carnival music blended awkwardly with a pop-song and accompanied a tapping clown duet. A flash of lightning (followed a second later by its rumbling counterpart and a sterile-electric smell) boldly declared the storm had arrived.

"Janie Carmel!" Chase said as he wrung Kayla's vomit from his mop. "You're next!"

Janie rolled her neck and approached the mess. "That's not right. I'm after Tracy."

"No ma'am," he replied. "Her dad filled out a drop form this morning."

She didn't need to ask again. Tracy had been pulled from the competition, and Janie knew why. "Give me five," she said, then marched away.

"You're on stage in four!" he shouted.

Janie adjusted the bun. It sat squarely atop her head with enough hairspray to withstand the gale. Her shoes were wet—part of the break-in process—and she flexed and stretched with every stride from the left-wing to the right.

No sign of Tracy. No sign of her father. A black drape flared in a burst of wet wind.

Janie looked behind her. The stairwell chasm yawned from behind a blockade of yellow caution tape _and it whispered her name._

She tried to ignore that stairwell (for days she tried to forget the man trapped below).

" _Janie,"_ it whispered again.

She ducked the tape. She held her tutu away from the narrow walls. She abandoned the storm and Chase and the tapping clowns and stepped into the cellar.

The corridor was longer than usual. Closet on her right. Empty changing rooms on her left. _Ten more steps_. Her pointe shoes traced lines in mortar dust. Her right hand dragged across the hatch-room door. She turned to face the chorus room and prepared her heart for a blood-curdling howl from within... but the only sound was the thumping base upstairs. She saw the cement seal for the first time; streaked and mashed with imprints from her father's left finger and thumb.

Fingers that typed a thousand reasons he loved her.

Fingers that shot and buried his good pup... for her.

Daddy deserved loyalty. Daddy deserved a daughter that could dance.

But it was _her_ fault that Hyde was dead.

It was _her_ fault that Kayla was sad.

It was _her_ fault that Tracy wasn't dancing.

#1000. We are the same...

Janie squeezed every muscle in her face— _every muscle in her body—_ then rammed her fist against the chorus-room door. A tear broke from her chin and marked the dust with a splatter. "Hello?" she cried and punched it again. _"Are you in there?"_

If a man was dead behind that door, her father didn't deserve a loyal daughter. _She could never be like him._

And the acceptance of that notion set her free.

She pounded again—harder—but still no reply. She picked her fingernails beneath the hardened cement but it would take hours to break it away without tools.

_Sherlock_. After her dance, she would tell Mr. Cavenaugh.

Janie slapped her hands together to clear the dust. She pressed the tears from her eyes and looked at the door. She shook the butterflies from her stomach, turned, and breezed peacefully through the hallway.

Chase was no longer a burden. _He could be her boyfriend again._ Someday, if he wanted to settle, maybe she could do that with him. Maybe they could get a kitten. Maybe she could have a daughter of her own.

Her dance would conclude with three jetés and a chasse off stage-left. _But Chase would be standing stage-right._ If she leapt left, only to stop after the final jeté to turn back, she would lose points.

But points didn't matter if she landed in her boyfriend's arms.

When her dance was over, she would tell him what she did. They would tell Cavenaugh together.

She bounded up the stairs, lighter now than ever before.

William stood on the top step. His clothes were dark with rain. He extended his claw and Janie took it. He smelled of cinnamon; his red wad of gum was speckled with flecks of sunflower shells. His face was smooth. He looked like her Daddy again.

When the carousel of music stopped and flashing cameras caught the final pose of the clowns, the children bowed, exited The Stage, and ducked the drizzle on their way to their families in the back row.

Janie and Will stepped in the wing. She saw Chase. He nodded _you're next_ , then grabbed his broom.

She wanted to kiss him. _She wanted to tell him!_

Will spoke loudly enough for Chase to hear. "When you're finished, honey, I'll be waiting in the left-wing."

She nodded.

Chase zip-zagged again with his push broom, sweeping the glitter, feathers, and wetness from the wooden floor of The Stage.

"You love me Janie?" William asked.

"I love you, Dad."

"Our secret will stay a secret?"

"Of course." It was a lie, but it was necessary.

The announcer blared through the overhead speakers and introduced the next dance with peppy enthusiasm. "Next up we have competitive ballet, age fourteen. Please welcome Janie Carmel performing 'An Elegy for Miracles!'"

* * *

Janie's fingertips brushed the meshwork edge of her cream tutu. William released his fingers from her temples, kissed the twirl of brown hair secured tightly atop her head, and backed into the shadows of the right-wing as his daughter took her position on the dance floor.

A crack of thunder signaled another surge of applause as the girl assumed her stance, arms superbly posed and overexposed in the spotlight. For an instant her eyes met her father's. He mouthed _"Thank you,"_ but her stoicism refused a smile.

Her decision was final.

Kayla Reid prowled behind the seated audience. The rain pelted her lashes but she didn't blink. One eye stayed on Brian Cavenaugh, the other searched the crowd for Baylee. Fuck strength. Fuck belief. Kayla wanted that girl to die.

The Stage was no longer a link to reaffirming childhood memories. There was no God here. Just pain. Kayla knew it before, and she knew it now.

As William awaited the music, his cinnamon gum began to lock his jaw, already overworked from a month of grinding teeth. He didn't care; he chewed more furiously and reveled in his stiffening cheeks and the sound of every squished chomp. If his muscles cramped, he would gladly take the pain.

Squinting past the lights and rain and into the darkened sway of the audience, William knew his wife was watching. Brian "Sherlock" Cavenaugh and two other policemen were also peppered in the mass; their usual navy garb replaced by inconspicuous jackets and jeans. William wasn't worried about Sherlock and his minions; everything was proceeding as planned.

(5, 6, 7, 8) Chase watched Janie blossom as the song began. From the corner of his eye, he watched William scuttle behind the set to cross to the opposite side of The Stage.

Sarah watched the beginning of the dance from her seat in the audience. As Janie's impeccable movement exploded across The Stage, Sarah saw in her daughter the same dedication that she once admired in Will.

She still believed that true change was impossible. _But who cares?_ Did William Carmel love her? The script—hiding from the rain beneath her jacket—was proof that he would do anything for his family. Plus, Janie assured her that he was clean! Wild Bill Hikock discovered that his Theater was a prank, _his wife left him_... and he didn't lose his sobriety?

It took more than six months to realize it, _but Sarah Carmel still loved her husband._

Inside The Stage, William's gum-chewing slowed. He spit the wad behind the fiberglass set piece as he crossed from stage-right to stage-left where Janie was about to exit. He ran his deformed finger and thumb through wet, grey hair, then relinquished his stress to the sad tune. _An arabesque. A grand battement._ The movements were crystal in his mind's eye. He recalled his daughter practicing days earlier in the living room, just the two of them. Then years earlier, a different dance but the same Janie, the same living room, twirls and giggles and good times accompanied by great music; _just the three of them._

He emerged into the left-wing. He tapped the choreography's timing with his toe. He eyed the young stage manager across the floor, standing motionless for the first time today with his chin on his broom and his eyes entranced on Janie.

What William didn't see was the dedication behind Chase's watchful eyes. Tonight, his games had become a reality. If Janie left The Stage on her father's side, Chase would resign; he would finish out the week, then he would tell Pauline that he would never step foot in William Carmel's Theater again.

If, however, Janie chose _his_ side, he would find a way to win her back. They would fight the trials of a long-distance relationship for as long as she would have him. He would buy her flowers... he may never have the talent to write a song or choreograph a dance... but tonight, _he could buy her flowers._

In the center aisle of the spectators, Baylee broke down. William's words were true. She was wicked.

The pot and syrup in her car were more appealing then ever. If Hyde was gone, then so was she.

The tempo increased but Janie didn't miss a beat. William stepped forward. Chase stepped forward. The audience buzzed like TV static behind the rain. _Even the thunder broke to give the child her moment._ Another flawless arabesque followed by a fouetté.

The three jetés were next. Starting on stage-right, she would leap toward her father and land—off-stage—into his arms.

The first jeté began with a chassé followed immediately by the leap; arms stretched and legs split nearly three feet above the floor. Her back leg kicked and William sensed the judge's approval. The second jeté; flawless again and he wished the corner of her lip would raise so he could see her satisfaction. Another kick of the back leg; _another consummate landing._

The third jeté was the highest. Janie leapt, twisted her head away from William to the judges in the front row. Her legs spread again, four feet off the ground and directly above the hatch William conceived and installed—unfinished—containing his daughter's flawless landing in its dead center.

Exquisite!

The finale summoned uproarious accolade from the multitude and the ballerina closed her dance with three rapid steps toward a father who expected his little girl to land in his arms.

But Janie stopped. _Five feet away_. Her eyes locked with his. She screamed a thousand angry apologizes with that single look... and she said goodbye.

Daddy mouthed _"please,"_ but she turned away and ran.

The crowd gasped. The judges shook their heads, muttered amongst themselves, and penalized her for an inappropriate exit.

But Janie didn't care because Chase was waiting with liquid eyes and he dropped his broom and darted forward to catch her.

The audience ovation shamed the thunder in volume and rapture.

William sat on the hardwood floor of his Stage. He watched his daughter as she fell into the arms of that boy _..._ and he knew what would follow.

The announcer said something—William didn't know what—and the next little girl in line began her lyrical number.

Sherlock was backstage within a minute. Will watched the boy pull up a chair. He watched Janie sit. He watched Cavenaugh kneel to her level. He watched her sob.

William looked up... through his tears... past the catwalk and lights... past the sky... through the dark and clouds and stars and into the void where he once knew God existed, then turned himself outside-in, alone, and asked, _"Why?"_

* * *

Three more pills and Baylee groped the air as if her arms were insect antennae sensing a path through the standing ovation. William's secret entrance was her escape route; fifty more feet and it was downhill to the private sanctuary of her car.

A woman with red hair clung to the edge of a tent bulging with spectators. The woman stood out because Baylee had caught her staring a few minutes earlier. Now she spoke to a cop with blubbering— _accusing_ —gestures.

Baylee paused to watch the outcome of the conversation. She used her hand to shield her eyes while the mud sucked the soles of her sandals.

Instead of listening to the woman's plea, the officer raised a hand and lifted a walkie-talkie to his ear. Baylee didn't know what the transmission said, but she could tell it was urgent. He clipped the device back to his belt and dashed toward The Stage.

The red-haired woman floundered beside him, still attempting to argue her case, but his mannerisms were clearly explaining that this was an emergency.

The lady had the same instinct as Baylee. She threw down her arms when the officer brushed her aside, then pushed back her flat orange hair and followed him to The Theater.

The drugs made Baylee more nauseous than euphoric, but she pressed the sacks beneath her eyes, inhaled the heavy air, and jogged to keep up.

Inside The Theater, she hid behind a black curtain and eyed a teenage girl in a chair and a boy rubbing her back. Two cops stood guard while a third officer knelt to the girl's level.

Nobody spoke.

But then, very slowly, the young girl lifted her arm and extended her finger to a stairwell.

The meeting erupted with pandemonium.

They found Hyde.

* * *

No one was allowed in the basement. Not even Kayla.

The officers attempted to disguise their urgency by whispering and walking in controlled strides, but a curious cluster was already growing around the stairwells.

Kayla drew more attention by wailing her fists into the guard's chest.

The rising drone of police sirens cut through the storm and Theater walls and brought a flurry of Pauline Woodstock backstage. Chase stepped between his mother and the guard, backed her against the wall, and kept her focused on him instead of the tragedy of an ambulance at her show.

Despite the confusion, several teachers offered Kayla their support. She pushed them away.

Police backup arrived. Within a minute, the horde was corralled behind a caution-tape barrier to give the experts room to breathe.

A battering ram slammed into the chorus-room door, sending tremors through the cinderblock walls. Kayla's knees wilted with every thump of The Theater's fated heart.

* * *

Surreal were the moments before Hyde's body was officially discovered and Pauline gave the order to cancel the show. Within that twinkle of time, those with studious eyes noticed the owner of The Theater standing amongst his congregation in the rain, a smile from cheek to cheek and grey eyes bright and fixated on a dance in which he had no stake. When it was finished and the child posed and bowed, William clapped with the rest.

* * *

April May announced the show's cancellation. Boos from the spectators rang like a broken trombone.

Janie had no interest in watching the incarceration of her father, or learning if Mr. Whitaker was still alive. Instead, she sought her mother in the fray.

Robin and The Channel Six News saw the oscillating red and blue halo emitting from behind The Theater and rushed their plastic wrapped cameras and fluttering blond hair to the loading dock.

William remained seated as the crowd filed through the front gate. He was discovered by Officer Middleton amongst eight-hundred-and-forty-four empty seats. He was quietly cuffed, escorted past the cameras to the back of his Theater, then thrust in the backseat of a patrol car.

Two EMTs ascended the staircase with a stretcher. Kayla broke through the mass, guard, and tape, and saw her husband's sunken eyes and raisin skin. He didn't speak, _but he was alive._

The EMTs allowed Kayla to walk alongside the stretcher. They rolled Hyde through the backdoor and onto the loading dock. The pavement was wet, but the storm was over. They collapsed the gurney's legs, carried the stretcher down the stairs, then reopened the legs and rolled Hyde to the open ambulance.

Kayla didn't know how Baylee arrived at Hyde's side, but there she was, ignoring the guards and EMTs just like she had done, sobbing as if it was _her_ husband fighting for life.

Before anyone could comprehend the awkward triangle or its deplorable innuendo, the driver stated that only one person was allowed in the ambulance.

Kayla stammered... she explained that the man was her husband and he had been missing for weeks _and she loved him!_ The driver nodded his approval... but Hyde lifted his hand and Kayla fell silent. He took her into his eyes, then shook his head _"no."_ He held her hand. He squeezed it. He smiled.

Baylee clasped her hands together and nodded erratically. She touched Hyde's whiskered face and wove her fingers around his hair... but he caught her eyes too, pulled in oxygen, and exhaled the whispered words, _"No, Bay."_

The driver helped the EMTs lift the gurney into the ambulance and Hyde was immediately attached to an IV. They closed the doors. The driver hit the siren. Two police officers held back foot traffic from the front gate.

The obvious thoughts of "Who did this?" "Why'd they do it?" and "Will he be okay?" were put on hold as Kayla damned Baylee to hell while the girl's eyes followed the ambulance down the hill.

But then something happened. Between her prayers for death on that blonde demon and the sting from her husband's dismissal, Kayla experienced a new emotion that became as prevalent as the rest; _she felt empathy for Baylee._ In a spontaneous moment of clarity, Kayla realized that Baylee was just a stupid girl, just like she was. Right now, they _both_ understood abandonment better than anyone in the world. Right now, they were equal.

Kayla understood the pain the girl was feeling, but found herself above it; _truly above it_ for the very first time.

William was right; Baylee probably had drugs on her. And if the girl was still high, maybe she needed a place to spend the night.

* * *

Hyde dreamt of water sometime on the seventh day, but he wasn't drinking it. He was floating in a rubber raft on a river like a bathtub, snaking down a shallow incline away from The Stage. Kayla was beside him, her hand folded gently between his. Somehow, Hyde knew the raft ride was the last moment they would ever spend together. When the trip was over, they would never be together again.

As they drifted along, they passed a single scene from their life as a couple. It wasn't a recognizable memory, but it was a good one. Kayla squeezed his hand and said, "remember when?" but she didn't look up, and neither did he.

Hyde didn't love his wife in that dream, but he felt what she felt, and when he awoke in the dark, he cried.

**CODA**

" _...and grace my fears relieved."_

March: seven months after the National Championship

The morning was abnormally blue for a Michigan spring. Janie Carmel held herself in the arms of her fleece jacket and pressed her shoulders against her ears. Frozen blades of grass crunched beneath her steps as she climbed the hill behind her old house.

It was unfounded sentiment that brought her back to her father's theater; some prerequisite to "moving on" as Chase tried to explain. She approached the curvature where the hill began to level, and the bandshell would soon be peering over the skewed horizon.

The edge of something orange grabbed Janie's attention through the tinted grass. She knelt down, removed her glove, and worked her fingers into the cold dirt around the plastic curio.

It was an Easter egg, still intact after three years in the mud. She tugged off her other glove and held them both between her knees. She twisted open the neon vestige and discovered two pieces of chocolate (seeped from their foil and molded to the shell's curve) and a single quarter.

Engines revved and the ground trembled. It was almost time.

Janie didn't move. She recalled the words that her father spoke the night before. She remembered how the heat from his claw drew a vapored outline on the wall between them.

"Sometimes I can still feel them..." he said. "...my other fingers. Sometimes they tickle and I try to flex them. Sometimes it's excruciating... like I'm being poked with a dozen needles. Our Theater's no different, Janie. Even when it's gone, it'll never be _really gone._ "

The mechanical drone doubled in strength as the men in charge barked orders.

Janie examined the egg and its trinkets, then slipped the quarter in the pocket of her fleece and tossed the chocolate and shell to the ground. She wiggled her fingers back in her gloves. She looked to the crest of the hill... then turned around and walked away.

The quarter would be sentiment enough.

**AFTERWARD - The Music Box On the Hill**

Autumn, 2002.

I remember standing in a Chicago subway station, waiting for the train, begging God to give me ambition. I was in art school at the time, and I had just listened to a lecture explaining that only ten percent of students would make a living doing what they love. This number terrified me... so I prayed.

I can do the rest Lord... just give me ambition!

A decade later, that simple prayer is the only thing that keeps me tied to my desk, punching letters on a keyboard to form words to form sentences to create books that _maybe someday_ people will read.

Conceptually, _The Brandywine Prophet_ is my favorite of my books. My usual themes of creative obsession, madness, and faith burn quietly in the background of the first few chapters, then culminate like a choreographed firework show in the finale. If a single book could sum up the ambitions, fears, and philosophical musings of Jake Vander Ark, this would be it.

I'm twenty-eight years old. I haven't made a penny from my novels. But _The Brandywine Prophet_ is my opus.

* * *

If you can't tell from the protagonists in my books, I was a loser growing up. I was scrawny. I spent more time in the high-school art room than in class. I didn't have the same life goals as my peers, and good friends were hard to come by. While playing basketball in PE, a girl called me "twigs." The name didn't stick, but it was an accurate comparison.

It took ten years of drum and piano lessons to discover that I wasn't musical. I failed Geometry. I barely passed Spanish. As a senior, I was enrolled in junior-level History and freshmen-level Algebra... even then, I barely made it out alive.

I had several jobs during high school and college. I worked as a bagger when I was fourteen then a stock boy at sixteen, basking in the sickness of fluorescent light, enduring the tedium of picking stuff up and setting it back down. Some called it ADD, I called it a busy brain; either way, my lack of focus made "routine" impossible. Later, I worked for my dad around the house. Maintaining the yard, woods, pond, garage, and stables was a full-time job during the summer. Checker-board lawn, meticulously sorted nails and screws, wheelbarrows filled with wet leaves...

Things got better in college, not because I changed, but because I attended a school brimming with like-minded weirdos who dreaded the "day-to-day" as much as I did. _Finally!_ I had the freedom to express myself; to break free from the stifling banality of school and work! But even here, I was awkward. I didn't drink. My work straddled the dangerous line between "art" and "mainstream." And I couldn't draw to save my life.

In 2004, I made it my goal to get accepted into the directing program at American Film Institute. I wrote a killer essay, but I still needed to shoot a film to prove I had talent. That summer, I turned my parent's home into a movie set. The stables became a soundstage. The garage was storage for a homemade dolly, fog machine, costumes, fireworks, and props. The surrounding woods were transformed into a fairytale war zone with blue and green bulbs hanging from a web of extension cords, mortars buried in the leaves for colorful explosions, and over twenty friends dressed in silly costumes.

Despite my best efforts, I didn't get accepted into the AFI. I moved to Los Angeles anyway, only to find I was a decent director, but a terrible producer. I wrote a handful of screenplays, but didn't have the skill to get them off the ground.

In 2008, I returned to my hometown. I was twenty-five years old. I was talentless.

* * *

Thanks to a gracious connection I made in LA, I was offered a job as a stage manager for a national dance competition. The position still required picking stuff up and setting it back down... but it also gave me a backstage pass to _art_ in its most expressive form. Dance and choreography were two more talents I would never posses, but my proximity to creative passion was inspiring. It was here—with my clipboard in one hand and a phone in the other—that I discovered my purpose. For the first time in twenty-five years of failure, I realized I had a gift: _creativity._

Standing in a shifting herd of young dancers, I began to see my failures in a new light. My childhood music lessons weren't teaching me how to master an instrument, they were instilling in me an appreciation for a different form of creation. I sucked at simple arithmetic, but my young mind spent months dissecting the implications of "infinity" (a concept that would provide the backbone for my first novel.) I was an awful bagger because my brain was constantly bombarded with stories that I couldn't express while asking "paper or plastic?" It wasn't the desire to direct that drew me to filmmaking, but the fact that cinema is the truest form of creative expression. And I couldn't produce a movie because I didn't have the outward charisma necessary to rally the people and funds... but my _ideas_ were good.

The more I pondered my obsession with creative desire, the more I realized it had been with me since the beginning.

I recalled stories from my toddler years, how my mother taught me to find treasure in everyday places; interesting scraps of metal, fossils in the surface of ordinary stones. I remembered how my father exposed the artful artifice of cinema by telling me that the goblins in _Labyrinth_ were only puppets. My parents bought me complex Lego sets for birthdays, encouraged me to participate in Odyssey of the Mind instead of baseball, and never punished me for stealing their video camera to make movies with friends.

Mom was the first to point out that I appeared lifeless while bagging groceries; that I needed to follow my dreams if I wanted to find true success. To this day, she insists that I got my creativity from my Dad, but I still disagree. Yes, he was a magnificent craftsman, but his elaborate scratchboard drawings were essentially beautiful paint-by-numbers. No... I got my creativity from her. I got my _work ethic_ from my dad _._

To save this essay from an overload of self-indulgence, I'll skip the part of the story where I decided become a novelist. The point is, I had finally identified the fire in my chest... and writing was the only way to let it out.

* * *

This brings us to the story in your hands. _The Brandywine Prophet_ is my second and most ambitious novel. What began as a clever twist on _Field of Dreams_ quickly transformed into a crucible of the themes that have defined my life.

William is a conundrum. He's an artist, but a Christian. He thrives in all forms of abstract art, yet his worldview is based in logic. He has an almost scientific view of God, but it's balanced by his unwavering faith. To Will, art, logic, and spirituality are inseparable.

William's fate in the final chapter is the reason I wrote this book. The inspiration came from bold contemporary stories like _Magnolia_ , _Mulholland Drive,_ and _The Sopranos_ (though my work could never compare with these brilliant examples.)

I had brief internet popularity in the early 2000s when my analysis of _Mulholland Drive_ went viral. People liked it because I took the time to re-watch the movie, to decipher the director's cryptic "clues," and to form a concrete analysis of an abstract experience. To this day, I still get angry when people treat the series finale of _The Sopranos_ like a Choose Your Own Adventure novel. The writers told us what happened... we just need to look.

Pushing all narrative fluff aside, William Carmel is both the man I wish I could be, and the man I fear I'll become. He has talent that I will never posses... yet he failed. We live in a world where only ten percent of creative ambition succeeds; where God observes our struggle, hears our prayers, and sits quietly atop his hill.

But none of this will stop us. We'll chase creativity until we succeed... or go mad trying.

**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS**

I would like to thank four groups of friends, family, colleagues, and fans who knowingly and unknowingly supported this book.

First, to those who encouraged my creative ambition: Mom and Dad, Donna Wittum, Brad Vander Ark, Lori Marthens, Brian Vander Ark, Sharon Knibbe, Sarah Knibbe, Megan Marthens, Tad Groenendyk, Sherry Bazuin, Nancy Devries, Sheri Van Duyn, Al Schut, my professors at The School of the Art Institute of Chicago, Noah Shulman, Brennan Heldt, Jeff Patterson, Richard Vialet, my friends at Showstoppers, Allison Perkins, Kim Perkins, Ashley Mangan, Daniel Gateley, and the city of Grand Haven, Michigan.

To those who believe in me enough to provide financial support: Michael Geertsma, Josh Mockerman, Alan Perkins, Renée Vander Ark, and the forty other gracious donors who pledged to my Four Novels in Four Months project.

To those who provided factual inspiration for the events in this book: Kari Anderson, Mark Bottrell, Rebecca Curry, Alexis Dillard, Heather Epps, Laura Franz, and Megan Marthens.

Finally, to my Wattpad friends, many of whom left feedback on every stanza of this gigantic book: AliceNACT (Alice C. Q. Nguyen), AnnaxLove (Anna Gallegos), DarthKemberli (Kimmy Brodeur), forgottennever, ignoranceorapathy (Zoe), jewelzjones (Julie Jones), kerbubbles (Veronica), KJColton, MyLifeInBlackWhite (Julianna), Ryanne1984 (Ryanne Hilton), TheDivineMissM (Emily Faith), and White_Parade (Evie).

Thank you.

**BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS**

1. In what ways is the stage a character? What does the stage represent for each main character?

2. What are some reasons Hyde was drawn to William early in the story?

3. What is William's relationship to technology? What is Hyde's? How does technology affect character relationships?

4. Does William have any redeemable characteristics that kept you invested in his story? Or were you disgusted with him from the start?

5. Hyde's odyssey in chapter nine may feel out of place in the context of the story. Thematically and dramatically, what purpose does this chapter serve? What devices does the author use to keep the chapter relevant to the central plot?

6. Why is the bond between William and Challo vital to the story?

7. How do the fates of the characters differ between the prologue and ending?

8. How do these compare to the fates William had planned for each character?

9. Sometimes it's easy to say "I would do ____ in that situation." But upon further thought, it's difficult to really know. Imagine you were in William's position in the stables on Easter night. Without any logical explanation, what would you believe? Who would you tell?

10. What if you were on Sarah's side of the story? Would you believe a significant other if they told you they heard the voice of God?

11. Do you have a counter argument to Will's "dance vs sports" speech in chapter two?

12. Do dance competitions objectify women?

13. Considering Hyde's struggle and internal debate, do you think it was right to leave Kayla? What if Baylee wasn't in the picture?

14. Can people truly change?

15. What do you believe about religious phenomenon like Mary appearing in an oil spill or people who claim to hear the voice of God? If you believe in God, do you think he speaks to people as clearly as William heard the voice?

16. What is the correlation between God and creative desire? Have you seen these themes in other books or movies?

17. What does the book suggest about free will? How does it differ from your views?

18. If a person with strong religious convictions asked you about this book, would you recommend it?
