Our situation at Meryton is unique. Most burlesque shows are set up like tonight’s, at a bar with a stage, where attendees pay a cover charge or buy tickets, and the producer gives a cut to the venue and the participants. The shows run once or twice a month at most, and performers have to hustle to get enough of these gigs to cover their costuming budget alone, to say nothing of housing and feeding themselves. The steadiness of Meryton is a gift to anyone who manages to land a position there, which is what makes keeping it going so critical.

As showtime nears, the room fills with familiar faces, crowding out the barren feeling enough that I smile; there’s half a deck’s worth of burlesquers in the audience. That’s something I love about the scene, how supportive performers are of one another. There are occasionally squabbles about who gets to use a certain song, or someone will bite a piece of choreography from another dancer. There’s certainly no shortage of drama in our personal lives, but at the end of the day, we show up for one another.

The band files onto the stage, the same quintet that works weekends at Meryton. The guys are dressed in khaki service chinos, though based on the distribution of pieces, it looks like they only had two full costumes and divided them among the crew. They take their places and coax out a few notes, starting into a warm-up tune. The energy in the room shifts, conversations going quiet, and my nerves quake with a vicarious thrill.

Johnny pokes his head out from between the curtains at stage right, tugging on an army-green baseball cap as he talks to Arthur.

“Should we grab seats?” Charles asks.

I pick up my drink, pausing when a woman joins Johnny, who retreats through the curtains. The woman looks side to side, blue-black victory rolls framing her pale face as she scans the room wide-eyed.

“There’s Darlene!” Ming announces, and waves.

Darlene spots us and her jaw drops in a gasp of relief. The rest of her emerges from the curtains, dressed in the classic green khakis of a field nurse, the red-cross band on her arm embellished with sequins.

She hurries toward us. “You’re about to save my life. Sola . . . ,” she says, naming one of tonight’s performers. “The zipper broke on the flight suit she’s peeling out of and she’s stuck in it. Jewbilee is doing the best she can, but—”

Ming tosses back the last of her beer, planting the empty glass on the bar. “I’m on it.”

“Thank you.” She turns to Charles. “Sorry. I don’t really know you or how you can help.”

“Moral support?” he supplies cheerily.

“I’ll take it.” She points at me. “Can you stretch for time?”

“What do you have in mind?”