The audition was in an old warehouse two trains away at the ass end of Brooklyn, the building so run-down he almost didn’t go in for the first round. The only thing that actually got him in the door was the fact that the director of the show was Stewart Harpham-Lale, a figure well-known in the musical theater crowd who had never quite found mainstream success. Apparently, retirement bored him, and he was now filling his hours at Shady Queens. Worst case, Archer figured he could learn a thing or two from Stewart.

He approached a woman sitting at a folding table inside the rusty doors. “Hi, I’m Archer Read, here for the callback?” His voice was small in the vast space.

She barely glanced at him as she checked a clipboard and gave him a sticker with a number ten. “You can go ahead and warm up,” she said, nodding at the floor.

He slipped his sweats off and did some stretches at a shaky barre. There were about twenty other people in the room who clearly couldn’t land anything better either. And yet … each one of them was incredible. That made him feel worse. Talented and still not happening.

They started with Latin ballroom. He was paired up with a tiny slip of a blond girl for a samba, which worked in his favor because he was able to whirl her around with ease. Next, they danced hip-hop to Missy Elliott, which he felt good about, pushing through the tiredness and hitting it as hard as he could. Last was lyrical, his favorite, thanks to his ballet training.

As he stood in that moment of stillness before the final run, between the last breath and the first note, the thought came to him. This could be it. Inhale. This could be my last one. Exhale. The tightening in his chest loosened.

He danced. The beat of the music thrummed in his blood, the stretch of each finger and toe reached to the ends of the earth, every breath was fuel in the fire. He flew around the floor like gravity was merely a suggestion, with a lightness that he hadn’t felt in a long time. When he stopped and stood in the silence at the end, his eyes were wet.

He stood, heaving in formation with the other dancers, while the panel sat staring, impassive.

“If you could all give us a few minutes,” the one who seemed to be in charge said, before they turned their chairs and huddled for about ninety seconds. They turned back again. A silence grew, stretched, grabbed Archer’s chest and squeezed. “Numbers three, four, ten, and fourteen, you can stay. The others, thank you.”

Archer stared at his number ten. He blinked, confused. Surely not. He watched as the rest turned and left, leaving him, two other men, and the tiny blond slip on the floor.