“What’s the threshold?”
“Usually when someone calls local news.”
She looked toward a man typing rapidly on his phone.
“That feels close.”
The first girl held out her phone.
“Could we please get a picture?”
“Quickly.”
I took it from her before she could arrange us in front of the seawall.
Two photographs.
Return the phone.
Smile.
Thank them.
Move.
The second girl wanted a birthday video for her mother.
A woman asked me to sign a canvas tote.
Someone called my name from across the market.
More phones rose.
My training took over.
Control the pace.
Keep the group calm.
Never look trapped.
Never let the smile become effort.
I could do this.
I had done versions of it in airports, hotels, restaurants, gas stations, hospitals, funerals, and once outside a portable toilet at a music festival.
The problem was Ellie.
She stood near the seawall watching me become someone she had never met.
Every polished answer widened the space between us.
A woman carrying a baby asked whether I could record a birthday message for her husband.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Brandon.”
