Maintaining his grip, he tugged her across the terrace, as the assistant director yelled, “Let’s settle, people!”

Two sets away from the action and still moving, he said, “Mr. Bane wants to see me about?”

“Last . . .”

“Rolling!”

“. . . night.”

Tony laid a finger against his mouth as the second assistant camera called the slate.

“Scene eight, take four.”

Veronica jumped at the crack.

“Mark!”

And she jumped again as Peter snapped, “Action!”

Even the muttering in Tony’s ear jack stopped. They were far enough from the actual set to allow quiet movement, so he continued pulling her across the concrete floor, past the back walls scribbled over with cryptic construction notes to the line of small dressing rooms for the auxiliary cast.

Most production companies with similar space limitations used a second location trailer parked close to an outside door. Chester Bane refused to pay for the power necessary to keep one running and had the construction crew throw up a row of cubbyholes against the back wall. Each unpainted “dressing room” was six by six, with a padded bench across the back, a full-length mirror, a row of hooks, and a shelf. The whole thing looked not unlike the “private rooms” in some of the sleazier bathhouses. The only thing missing: a dented condom dispenser.

Gesturing for Veronica to remain quiet, Tony scratched lightly on the door marked with Catherine scrawled across a strip of duct tape.

The door opened.

Darkness spilled out.

Tony leaped back and, heart pounding, found himself pinned under the questioning eyes of two confused women.

Catherine’s shadow stretched from her feet to his.

Dredging up a smile, he flashed a fifteen minute sign, nodded as she did, and watched as she closed her shadow back in with her. Wondering if he should say something. Do something.

About what?

Shadows?

I’ve got to start getting more sleep. He waved Veronica in front of him, pulled her back as she nearly stepped on the edge of a new hardwood floor—where the hardwood was paint and the actual floor was plywood. The art director, faking slightly salacious delft tiles by the fireplace, turned and flashed him an emphatic thumbs-up.

Life had been a variation on that theme all morning.

By the time he’d hit the craft services truck at seven, the genny op had been embellishing the story of him pulling Daniel from the burning car for almost an hour. No one had made a huge fuss—well, no one except Everett although that was pretty much a given regardless—but most of the crew had taken a moment to say something.

“Jaysus, Tony, you couldn’t of let the bugger fry? I’m after owing him fifty bucks.”

Under other circumstances he wouldn’t have minded being the center of attention, but he hadn’t actually done much. Since he couldn’t explain that Henry had yanked the car door open, all he could do was hope that something else provided a new focus for people with long stretches of too much time on their hands—and provide it sooner rather than later.