"WAIT—"
"Don't."
"JANE—"
"Iknow."
"IS THAT YOUR—"
"I KNOW."
"HE'SHERE? In THIS—"
"Grace, I swear on everything—"
"YOU DIDN'T KNOW?!"
"DO I LOOK LIKE I KNEW?"
Grace stares at me. Stares at the screen. Stares at me again.
"Go," she says.
"Where? I don't even know where the VIP section—"
"VIP section. It's—" She cranes her neck. Spins. Points. "That way. I think."
"You think?"
"Jane, I don't have a map. Do you want to find him or not?"
I do.
Sweet mercy, I do.
She shoves me. Physically shoves me toward the aisle.
I move.
Ihave no idea wherethe VIP section is.
Approximately nine thousand people are between me and wherever West is standing.
The crowd is praying for a miracle.
So am I. Just a different one.
I am moving laterally through a crowd of deeply committed hockey fans who have no interest in accommodating a woman with an urgent personal crisis.
"Excuse me—sorry—coming through—"
Grace materializes behind me. "He was on the LEFT side of the screen."
"That could mean anything, Grace."
"Your left or camera left?"
"THERE IS ONLY ONE LEFT."
