Lila sits near the center with Maria. Marco stands between them, his shepherd’s staff upright beside his knee. His chin is high, but his shoulders tell the truth. He keeps his eyes on the stage curtain, red creeping into his cheeks every time the other shepherds laugh behind it. He is waiting for his time and is not happy about it.
Lila clocks the woman at the back and goes very still. Her jaw sets, eyes return to the stage, but her shoulders do not settle. The woman has not learned her lesson. Her wool coat still shows no stain from the alley behind the Lantern. Her eyes are locked on the stage, her face blank. Her right hand stays inside her coat. Fingers work against something small in the pocket. No light shows, no sound, just the faint tension in her shoulder. Then her eyes flick toward the lobby doors, then toward the back exit. She believes the square is the only way out, and she is sending herpeople to meet it. I let my gaze pass over her and turn away like I have seen nothing. Let her think I missed it.
Mrs. Brewster sits three rows up, eyes on the stage, the red coat draped over her chair. She never wears it during the show. That is the point.
Then two things happen. One of the wise men, distracted by his cardboard crown slipping over his eyes, takes a wrong turn and bumps the stable wall. The star above it tilts and drops half a foot, hanging at a heroic angle. Mrs. Doyle gasps loud enough for the back row to hear, and a ripple of laughter moves through the audience.
And then the first bottle hits. It arcs from the alley side and shatters against the brick shoulder of the hall. For a moment, it is only glass and skitter. Then a flame blooms across the snow like a curtain pulled the wrong way. Light climbs the wall, greedy and quick. The window near the boiler bangs in its frame but holds. At the back, the woman turns her head one degree and leaves. She will have a car door open within thirty seconds.
Screams rise. Chairs scrape. The jingle garland sings bright and hard as three people brush it at once.
“Down,” I say to no one and everyone. “Now.”
I am already moving. “Stage right, kitchen exit,” I call to Petro. “Now. We are out into the alley.”
“Copy,” he answers, nothing in his voice. The broom becomes a handle. He turns the funnel of tables to open the path and starts pushing families through the kitchen like he was born in a back corridor.
“Lobby,” I tell Nico. “Half the room left. Hold.”
“On it.” His programs hit a box and spill, forming a barrier. He puts his shoulder into the front influx and sends them out to the square, not into the lobby crush.
“Coach,” I clip. Ramirez grabs three folding chairs by their backs and uses them like a gate, flipping them toward the aisle to block the straight run and open the turn toward the kitchen. The kids see his face and follow his arm, not the sound. Near the piano, Gus acts on a cue. He straightens the red EXIT banner, swinging it toward the kitchen door.
“Hal,” I say, already crossing. “Cones.”
Hal drops the first cone with a short, sharp exhale and sets the second at the elbow of the coat rack S. Two hard orange points that change the path the way a hand on a shoulder changes a choice. He takes the third to the far end of the aisle, planting it tight against the riser leg to block a straight run. The fourth goes near the lobby mouth, angled toward the kitchen line, catching light from the overheads.
It works because this is a town built on small rules.
“Lila,” I say, close enough to touch her. “Center aisle. Move now.”
My voice cuts through the noise, steady and near. “Follow the lady in red,” I tell her.
“Mrs. Brewster?” Lila shouts back, her eyes wide in disbelief.
“Go,” I assert. Now is not the time to explain.
Mrs. Brewster stands where she should and swings the coat over her shoulders. The red becomes a flag. She moves fast but does not run, guiding the first line of children toward the side door by the kitchen corridor.
Lila is already in motion. “Maria,” she tells her mother. “Marco, with me.” She bends to the children nearest her and points. “Kitchen. Follow the lady in red. Hold your staff so no one trips.” They move with her voice, turning where she points. She removes a halo from a small head without hesitation and tucks it into a pocket. “You can be an angel later,” she tells the girl. “You are a runner now.”
Two men come in from the square, looking like volunteers. They are not. The first clears the lobby and aims for the aisle, coat open just enough to show a grip he means to hide. The other cuts around the far pews toward the side door.
I intercept the first man at the aisle shoulder, body to body, so he cannot lift. “No,” I tell him, because sometimes, a word arrives faster than anything else. He pivots. My hand finds his elbow, my palm his wrist. I move him into the fourth cone, the one near the lobby mouth. It catches his knees. He folds, hits the coat rack, and gives three more people a reason to change direction.
The second man hits the jingle garland and stops for half a second. People always do when a room suddenly makes noise. Nico steps in, shoulder to shoulder, and turns him off balance.
Mr. Finch drops his ladder across the path of the side door. It is a block, not a threat. The man slows, calculating whether to step over it or go around. That thought costs him time he does not have.
The sheriff keys his radio and barks orders to his men, voice sharp and clipped. He raises one hand, palm out, to keep parents back. His other hand moves to the holster and draws out the gun. He moves fast along the aisle, cutting from the coffee urn toward the kitchen door, his badge catching the light. His face stays calm, but the muscles in his jaw work like a clock.
Heat flares at the window. Petro’s extinguisher answers through the cracked pane, white spray kicking back into the wing. He coughs, resets the pin, and hits it again. The flame folds and dies.
Then a weight hits my leg. Marco. He drops the staff and grabs my hem, fists twisted in the fabric, his breath hot through the scarf. I lift him with one arm. His frame locks to me, small but fierce, eyes wide and wet with fear that should not belong to a child. I feel his heart hammer against mine, and something in me burns colder than the snow outside.
“I have you,” I tell him. “Stellino,I have you.”
“Is it part of the play?” he asks into my coat.
