“Nope. Just got here. He says he left it at a fortune-teller’s. Madame somebody.”

“Madame Zanto?”

“Yup, that’s her name. Madame Zanto. Know her?”

Pin closed her eyes. “Yeah, sure,” she said at last. “I know where she works. But she won’t be in yet,” she lied. “I can look for it later. What kind of notebook?”

“Just a notebook, he said. Where he writes down ideas for scenarios and dialogue. Spooky stories. You’ve seen it, he’s always carrying it with him.”

“I’ll find it and bring it when I come by later. Max isn’t in yet, either.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Pin raised her hand, palm out. Glory regarded her seriously, then nodded and pressed her palm against Pin’s.

“Okay. But if you forget, he’ll get mad at me.”

“I won’t forget.”

Pin shifted from one foot to the other, trying to think of some way to prolong the conversation. Glory, too, seemed disinclined to leave. She removed her hat and fanned her cheeks, squinting up at the dark sky. “Looks like it’ll storm later.”

As if in response, thunder mumbled in the distance, the sound immediately drowned out by the roar of the Jack Rabbit coaster. Glory shuddered. “I hate thunder.”

“It won’t rain—too far off. You want to see the Comique? That’s what they call the nickelodeon here.”

“Sure.”

They started walking. After a few steps, Glory linked her arm through Pin’s. “What do you do here all day?”

Pin’s heart beat faster, feeling Glory’s touch on her arm. “Not much,” she admitted, trying to keep her voice steady. “I help out sometimes at the Kansas Cyclone movie—it breaks down all the time. I know how to fix it, but they won’t let me. I wish I could work where you do. At the studio.”

Glory made a face. “What, be an actor? Don’t tell me that.”

“Not an actor. A cameraman. Billy Carrera’s taught me some things, but I could learn more. I just wish someone’d give me a job there.”

“Well, you’re kinda young.”

“I’m fourteen. Old enough to work.”

“Maybe. But you look younger. No offense intended.”

“I’ll be in high school next month. I’ve seen guys at Essanay aren’t any older than me. Well, maybe a year.”

“But most of them are actors,” said Glory. “You could be a joiner, if you were a girl.”

Pin had seen joiners at the studio: a room full of young women holding up ribbons of film, trying to determine where to match one frame to another with no obvious break in the action. Every frame had to be checked, marked with a wax pencil, then carefully attached with gummed tape. Seamstresses were supposed to be good at it—many joiners came from dress-making factories.

She shook her head. “I’d rather be a cameraman. Or a cutter.”