The girl waits patiently for us to stop. We do, leaning forward as one, waiting for what she will give us. She leaves us hanging there for a full twenty seconds before her soft voice caresses the room. “I seem to have lost my birds.” Her gaze slides over the room. “Will you please check your purses?”

I don’t have a purse. I nudge Stacie. She’s so focused on the stage that I have to shake her arm to get her attention.

I point to her gold clutch sitting on her lap. “Open it.”

“Okay. Okay.” She releases the clasp, pulling it open. Nothing happens for a moment, and she sighs, moving to close it again. “She’s just—”

A small blue parakeet soars out, and Stacie jumps back.

All around the audience, birds break free of purses. A chorus of chirping fills the stunned silence as they flit above our heads. The bird girl whistles, and the birds follow the sound, sailing past her and out of sight backstage. She gives us a small wave, no bow, and follows behind them, still whistling softly to herself.

The applause tops anything from the night before. It vibrates against my skin until I feel like an instrument being played.

It’s almost like my blood’s boiling.

But it could be nothing. The adrenaline. The thrill. Maybe that was all Mom meant in her journals—she was talking about big stage productions with technology and props that helped you do the impossible. She said she stopped putting on big productions because of our family. It takes a lot of time to put on that level of performance. She let go of those dreams for me. It hurts to know how much she missed this.

I glance at Stacie. She’s not clapping, but her mouth is open, and she stares at the stage like she’s hungry for more. I can relate.

She seems to shake herself and snap out of it. “Wow,” she says, eyeing the inside of her purse. “I hope it didn’t poop in here.”

I gape at her. That’s what she’s wondering about?

“Can I see it?” I point toward her purse, and she hands it over.

A wallet. Lipstick. Keys. Tampon. Nothing out of the ordinary. Still, I don’t want to hand it back to her—this small piece of the show.

The lights come on, but I barely notice. People walk past us on their way to the bar.

It’s a good trick. A great trick. It’s the kind that draws you in so deep you forget to look for the little flaws and giveaways until afterward, when your brain runs every moment together into one beautiful blur of awe, and there’s nothing to do but accept what you’ve seen and move on.

Unless it’s not a trick. The thought keeps needling in, forcing me to talk some sense into myself over and over again.

Mom always told me my imagination ran away with me sometimes. It’s just been a long time since that happened. The excitement of it felt good.