Usually all he has to do next is flip the hidden latch on the tank, and get out. He’s supposed to climb the hidden catwalk, go around to the back of the theater and zipline to the stage, flying right over the heads of the audience, thus bringing a small moment of wonder into their jaded, dreary lives before they return to the buffet and the slots. Easy-peasy.

But the goddamn latch won’t open.

Which means Eric is actually drowning.

He’d noticed the latch was sticking yesterday, and he asked Gordon, the ancient stage manager, to check it.

Right before the show, he’d asked again. “Did you have a chance to look at it?”

“Sure,” Gordon said.

That didn’t exactly fill Eric with confidence. “And?”

Gordon, veteran of maybe a hundred thousand Vegas shows, had stared at Eric for a moment in silent contempt. “It’s fine,” he said.

Now he pounds his fist against the latch, the water slowing his movements.

Fucking Gordon.

Eric thinks about what’s going on outside the tank. In his head, he’s been counting. Two minutes, forty-two seconds. He knows that despite themselves, they’re starting to wonder. Some of them will be holding their own breath, trying to see if they can last as long as Eric. They can’t. That’s how they know it’s all fake.

But what if it’s not?

Well. This will be a hell of a story for the audience to tell when they get back home.

Don’t panic, he tells himself. Don’t raise your heart rate, don’t increase the body’s need for oxygen.

His lungs are burning. Eric expels a stream of bubbles through his nose. It’s the CO2 build-up that gets you, makes you want to breathe. He can buy himself a little more time. He flips around, kicks against the latch and the glass as hard as he can. Still nothing.

He wonders if Kendall, the showgirl he’s been seeing, is worried about him. She’s very young. Really too young for him. She hasn’t figured out she can do much better than dating the magician.

And honestly, he should be past hitting on showgirls. He’s going to be forty in a couple of years. It never ends well. They’re either at the start of a bigger career or the end of a small one, either on their way up or on their way out.

While Eric stays in Vegas. Doing the same tricks, over and over again.

No. She’s not worried. Nobody will come to rescue him. They will think he’s running long. Possibly hungover. In fairness, it’s happened before.

Three minutes, thirty-four seconds.

Eric’s vision is going dim at the edges. He’s got nothing left in his lungs to exhale. His hands are cut and bleeding as he tugs and pulls at the latch. He might be panicking a bit now.