Then, suddenly, the door is being pulled open from the outside, and I’m swept out with the surging water, tumbling into the stillness of the barn.

George is staring at me. He’s leaning on a mop, and I’m sprawled on the floor. Everything is dry.

“Whoa there,” he says. “Take it easy.”

I run a hand over my clothes. My hair.

I’m dry.

Bone dry.

George offers me a hand up. But I don’t take it. I push myself to my feet. I’m shaking all over. Teeth chattering. Knees wobbling. I feel unsteady. George is staring at me again. In that odd way he has. “The door was stuck. I panicked, I guess.” I try to smile. Like it’s no big deal, drowning on dry land. But it’s not my best acting work, and George doesn’t look convinced.

“It’s an old building.” He shrugs. “Things stick sometimes. Around here.” He hasn’t taken his eyes off me. “It can be dangerous. If you’re not careful.”

“Yeah,” I say. But he’s still staring, and I wonder if he was waiting for me. Hanging around after the barn cleared out because he knew I was in the bathroom. That thought gives me the creeps, so I push past him.

“Watch yourself,” he growls.

But I’m already gone.

I grab my stuff and hurry outside. When I push open the door, I hear Jude call out from the little booth in the back of the theatre. “Going dark!” A stage manager’s warning before he shuts off the lights and plunges the stage into blackness.

Lex is waiting for me out in front of the theatre. It doesn’t surprise me to see him there. It’s weird how fast the two of us have settled into a kind of routine. Waiting for each other. Checking in. Saving a seat.

The best friend I never knew I needed. Or wanted.

He takes one look at me and slips an arm around my shoulders. “Come on,” he says, and I’m grateful when he leads me around the corner of the barn. Away from the bright glow of the outdoor lights.

I knew there was an amphitheater at Whisper Cove, but I hadn’t seen it until this moment. It’s bigger than I expected, with rows and rows of concrete risers stretching out below us and a wooden stage at the very bottom. It reminds me of something out of a theatre history textbook. A thing the Greeks might have built.

“Wow,” I say as Lex and I settle on the very top row, high above the stage where we’ll perform Midnight Music at the end of the month.

“Cool, huh?”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “Very cool.” The thought of acting out here gives me goose bumps.