He tugs on the collar, straightening out the holes for me, and as my head wriggles through—because the universe is nothing if not thorough in its humiliation quest—my bandana slides off.

Asad’s eyes reach my scalp before my fingers can, and for a split second, his eyes go wide. Instead of the long, stick-straight brown hair I had Before the Fire, my scalp now boasts little bald spots where the doctors cut out skin to graft onto my face. Some of the follicles burned off completely, and the hair that did survive is growing back coarse and frizzy. Dr. Sharp says this spriggy regrowth is temporary, but I’m not holding my breath for shampoo-commercial locks.

My patchy scalp only contributes to my crypt-keeper vibe, but instead of running off screaming, Asad reaches out to adjust my bandana. “Congratulations! You’ve officially crossed to the dark side of drama.” He slips his own T-shirt over his head. “Soon you’ll be like me, classically trained in fading into the background.”

I tug the bandana tight around my earhole just to make sure. “I can only dream.”

Tony leads us on a tour of the inner sanctum of the stage. Single file, we weave through the black curtain maze as he points out sound booms and lighting rigs and secret storage closets.

Asad leans closer to me to whisper when Tony turns around to explain how the curtain pulley system works. A piece of his black hair tickles my forehead.

“Want to see where the real magic happens?”

When the group goes off toward the dressing rooms, Asad leads me the other way to the back of the auditorium. The skin on my knees pulls painfully tight as I follow him up a dark, winding staircase, to a room that looks like the control station of a spaceship. He sits in a rolling chair and glides backward, his arms wide, gesturing to the rows and rows of switches and buttons.

“Welcome to my lair,” he says. “It’s humble, I know, but chicks dig it.”

I fold my arms across my chest and lean against one of the panels, trying to ignore the throbbing in my knees, afraid if I rub them or collapse on the floor like I want to, he’ll suddenly wonder why he’s hanging out with the bizarro Burned Girl.

“How many chicks, exactly, have you had in here?”

Asad hits a button and turns off all the lights in the auditorium, which stretches out below us through a large window. He hits another and just the center-stage spotlight blinks on.

“Quantity is not the key when it comes to chicks,” he says.