“Nothing,” the woman replied and began clapping out the rhythm once again.

Chapter 2

At the third word into the second song—it happened to be love—Michelle Cooper knew something was wrong.

She smelled the smoke more strongly. And it wasn’t cigarette smoke. Smoke from burning wood or paper.

Or the old, dry walls or flooring of a very congested roadhouse.

“Mom?” Trish was frowning, looking around too. Her pert nose twitched. “Is that…”

“Yeah, it is,” Michelle whispered. She couldn’t see any fumes but the smell was unmistakable and growing stronger. “We’re leaving. Now.” Michelle stood fast.

“Hey, lady,” a man called, catching her stool and righting it. “You okay?” Then he frowned. “Jesus. Is that smoke?”

Others were looking around, smelling the same.

No one else in the venue, none of the hundred plus others—employees or patrons or musicians—existed. Michelle Cooper was getting her daughter out of here. Michelle steered her toward the nearest fire exit door.

“My purse,” Trish said over the music. The Brighton bag, a present from Michelle, was hidden on the floor beneath the table—just to be safe. The girl broke away to retrieve the heart-embossed bag.

“Forget it, let’s go!” her mother commanded.

“I’ll just be…” the girl began and bent down.

“Trish! No! Leave it.”

By now, a dozen people nearby, who’d seen Michelle’s abrupt rise and lurch toward the exit, had stopped paying attention to the music and were looking around too. One by one they were also rising. Curious and troubled expressions on their faces. Smiles becoming frowns. Eyes narrowing. Something predatory, feral about the gazes.

Five or six oozed in between Michelle and her daughter, still rummaging for the purse. Michelle stepped forward fast and went for the girl’s shoulder to pull her up. Hand gripped sweater. It stretched.

“Mom!” Trish pulled away.

It was then that a brilliant light came on, focused on the exit doors.

The music stopped abruptly. The lead singer called into the microphone, “Hey, uhm, guys, I don’t know… Look, don’t panic.”

“Jesus, what’s—” somebody beside Michelle shouted.

The screams began. Wails filled the venue, loud, nearly loud enough to shatter eardrums.

Michelle struggled to get to Trish but more patrons surged between them. The two were pushed in different directions.

An announcement on the P.A.: “Ladies and gentlemen, there’s a fire. Evacuate! Evacuate now! Do not use the kitchen or stage exit—that’s where the fire is! Use the emergency doors.”

Howling screams now.

Patrons rose and stools fell, drinks scattered. Two high-top tables tipped over and crashed to the floor. People began moving toward the exit doors, whose red glowing signs were still obvious; the smell of smoke was strong but visibility was good.

“Trish! Over here!” Michelle screamed. Now two dozen people were between them. Why the hell had she gone back for the damn purse? “Let’s get out!”

Her daughter started toward her through the crowd. But the tide of people surging for the exit doors lifted Michelle off her feet and tugged her away, while Trish was enveloped in another group.