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Another pause, softer this time.

“I love you too.”

I ended the call before either of us could improve our honesty.

The ballroom came back at full volume. Wheels over carpet seams. Silverware being counted. A radio call from the loading dock. The ordinary sound of hundreds of decisions waiting for someone to make them.

I returned to the broker.

“Thank you for holding.”

“Everything all right?”

“Yes.”

I picked up the pen.

“You said there were two more questions.”

She asked whether any professional license held by the applicant had been suspended or revoked.

“No.”

She asked whether I understood that inaccurate representations could void coverage.

“Yes.”

“Sign and date the declaration, then send me a photograph or scan. I’ll confirm receipt and request binding.”

I signed.

My name crossed the line in one smooth motion.

I dated it and wrote the time beneath because a midnight deadline deserved evidence.

9:08 a.m.

I photographed the page against the road case, checked that all four corners showed, checked that the signature was legible, attached it to the email, and sent it.

“Sent.”

I ended the call.

I placed the signed original in the insurance divider, closed the document case, and checked my watch.

9:09.

Nine minutes had passed.

The room had not failed.

No cart had blocked an exit. No rigging point had shifted. No person had made an irreversible decision because I was occupied with something else.

The fact should have soothed me.

Instead I checked the south stage stair again from where I stood.

Still there.