When Cole walks me back to my cabin that night after rehearsal, he looks at me for a long time. “You can’t save me,” he finally says. “And that’s okay. That’s the way it’s supposed to go.” I want to tell him there’s no way he can know that for sure. But I can’t. I’m too sad. Too scared. Too confused and exhausted. Cole pulls another piece of sea glass out of his pocket. But I shake my head and close his fist around the tiny chunk.

“Keep it,” I tell him. “I don’t need anything to remember you by. I’ll hear your song inside my heart.”

“Always?” he asks me.

“Always,” I tell him.

ACT III: SCENE 8

The next few days are kind of a blur. Tech rehearsals last for hours. There are light cues and sound cues. All the new props. And set pieces. But it feels good to be working in the amphitheater.

Even when the sound of the waves seems too loud.

Even when the fog creeps in late at night to lick at our ankles.

Even when Cole’s eyes seem darker than they used to be.

It’s like we assembled the play together in the barn, but it didn’t truly become a living thing until we brought it outside and let the night air fill its lungs.

Now it’s breathing.

This is a play that wants to be performed by starlight.

After rehearsal Wednesday night, I linger in the amphitheater. I’m hypnotized by the movements of the lighting crew. The way they navigate the tall ladders with heavy equipment tucked under one arm like it’s nothing. They’re making final adjustments. There’s a kind of grace to it. It’s like ballet. Up and down. Reaching. Stretching. Nimble and fast. They seem so sure of their footing. It makes me jealous. Lately I feel one wrong move from falling to my death, even when I’m standing on the ground.

When I turn to go, Glory is standing right behind me. Shit. I hadn’t heard a thing. But she’s right there. Looking at me. For a second, I stop breathing.