"That's not the line, Devon!"
"It's better than the line!"
Somewhere deeper in the theater, something crashed. A voice I didn't recognize shouted, "It's fine! Everything's fine! Nobody panic!"
Ben caught my eye from across the corridor, where Mr. Castellanos, the hardware store owner who'd volunteered to manage props, had intercepted him. The man was gesturing frantically at a piece of the department store window display.
"It started wobbling," Mr. Castellanos said. "Ten minutes ago, it was solid. Now look at it."
Ben ran his hand along the frame, frowning. "The joint's fine. The wood's fine." He crouched to examine the base. "Did someone move it?"
"Nobody touched it!"
I left Ben to his wobbling set mystery and pushed deeper into the backstage labyrinth. The noise level swelled with each step—hairdryers competing with vocal warmups, the clatter of tap shoes on concrete, and someone's phone blasting a pop song until Mrs. Brubaker's voice cut through, demanding that it stop.
In the doorway of the men's dressing room, Jack stood frozen in front of a mirror. He was already in costume—the perfectly tailored suit of a 1940s department store executive—but his face was ashen.
"I can't remember my lines." His voice came out thin and strangled. "I knew them yesterday. I knew them an hour ago. Now they're just—gone. There's nothing in my head except white noise and business jargon."
Charice appeared behind him, calm as still water in her toy department manager costume. "You've said your lines correctly approximately nine hundred times in rehearsal. They're not gone. They're hiding because you're trying too hard to find them."
"What if I walk out there and open my mouth and nothing comes out?"
"Then I'll step on your foot, and you'll be so busy being outraged that you'll forget to be nervous." She patted his arm. "Works every time."
"That's not comforting!"
"It's not meant to be comforting. It's meant to be true."
I stepped into the room, and Jack's panicked gaze locked onto me like I was a life raft. "Alex. Tell me I'm not going to destroy the show."
"You're not going to destroy the show." I moved to stand beside him, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "And you're not going to forget your lines. You know why?"
"Because Charice will step on my foot?"
"Because you're not thinking about the lines. You're thinking about failing." I turned him gently away from the mirror—away from the image of himself in costume. "Remember what we talked about? Fred doesn't care about being perfect. He cares about Susan. When you're out there, forget the audience. Forget the stakes. Just look at Charice and react to what she gives you."
Jack took a shaky breath. "React to Charice."
"She's going to be brilliant, and you're going to fall in love with her all over again, and the words will come because they're the only words that make sense in that moment." I squeezed his shoulder. "Trust the work you've done. Trust her. The rest will take care of itself."
Some color returned to his face. Charice mouthed thank you over his shoulder.
I left them and nearly tripped over Charlie, who was sitting cross-legged in the corridor with his script open on his knees. He stared blankly at the pages.
"Hey." I crouched beside him. "How's Toast doing?"
The question surprised a small smile out of him. "Mom says she's waiting by the door. She knows something's happening." He traced the edge of the script with his fingers. "I'm not scared anymore. Is that weird?"
"Not weird at all. That's what happens when you've done the work."
"It feels different today. Like..." He struggled for words. "Like the theater wants us to do a good job. Like it's helping."
I thought about the set piece that had mysteriously started wobbling, the way the stage lights had flickered in welcome when Ben and I walked in, and the odd warmth that had beenpulsing through me since the reindeer pressed their noses to our hearts.
"I think you might be right about that."
Holly materialized at the end of a corridor, watching me with that knowing expression she'd worn since the day I'd fallen on her doorstep. Her patchwork skirt swirled around her ankles, and her bracelets chimed as she pressed a steaming mug into my hands.
