“Over,” said Alex.
“Stop sayingover.”
“Stop saying what? Over.”
“Over.”
“Didn’t hear that. Just got theoverpart. Over.”
“I want you”—I spoke very clearly and very slowly—“to stop saying the wordover, by which I—”
“Which word? Over.”
“Alex, I need you to get a truck unloaded.”
“So I should stop sayingtruck? Please confirm? Over.”
“No.”
“No, don’t saytruck? Or no, do saytruck. Over?”
“Alex,” I tried again, wondering—as I always did—if this was somehow my fault. “I need you to get someone to unload a truck—”
“That’s going to be bally difficult to do if I can’t saytruck. Over.”
“You can saytruck,” I yelled. “You can say everything exceptover.”
“Everything except what? Over.”
The channel crackled. “I’ve got someone on it,” said Barbara Clench, from wherever she was. Which, unlike every other member of the team, was almost certainly where she was meant to be.
“Thanks, Barbara,” I said.
“Over,” said Alex.
“How are sales looking?” I asked.
“No idea,” said Alex. “Over.”
“Cautiously healthy,” said Barbara Clench. “Between presales, the gate, and CRAPP’s other sources of income, we should get another year, maybe eighteen months. But obviously we’ll know more when it’s all over.”
“When it’s all what?” trilled Alex. “Over.”
There was a long silence. “Out,” said Barbara very deliberately.
I sank down on another knobby box that may or may not have been an amp, and sucked in a deep, anxious breath. That was probably the best news I could have received that didn’t quite qualify as good news. I hadn’t sunk us, but I hadn’t saved us, either, and I didn’t know how to feel about that. Like, did I really want to spend the next however-long of my life jumping from scheme to scheme, desperately trying to keep a failing charity alive? On the other hand, walking away or just letting it die seemed shitty. Still, it could have been worse. At least since Saint had dropped out, I didn’t have to deal with—
“Luc Fleming!” Saint’s voice rang across the field. “Why the fuck am I not on the set list?”
I should have known. Of course he’d show up. Of course he’d expect to be playing. “You told me you weren’t coming,” I pointed out.
“That’s just industry talk. Where’s Odile?”
“Setting up. Look, the thing is, Saint—”
I didn’t get any further because there was yet more yelling. The other two living members of Rancid Sputum were tromping across the field towards us, Rik Jism currently shouting some very rude things at a security guard who was trying to make him leave.
“Itold you,” Saint bellowed at his former bandmates, “you’re notwelcome.”
