“Hey, Sylvie! We’re just putting the kiddos to bed. How was the show?”

“We’ve got a problem . . .”

“Jiminy fucking Cricket,” Lucas says when I’m done filling him in.

It’s rare for him to swear. I slide down the wall, pull my knees close to my chest, and rest my thumbs against my temples to dull the throbbing. Moose comes over and settles beside me on the polished hickory floor, oblivious to the bomb dropped, timer set to detonate sometime soon. Shows are tiring—I’m used to that. The heaviness in my body now is a different kind of weariness. I unearth a Tums from my pocket, pick the fluff off, and eat it.

Lucas warns, “His story could kill the TV show.”

My chest squeezes but not fast enough to catch my heart before it drops. I didn’t know the show mattered so much to me until this moment. Why? It’s a chance to reach more people, help them. Or is it to prove to my parents that I’ve chosen the right path? Or maybe it’s just knee-jerk instinct, like a beetle caught on its back, legs thrashing even though it’s doomed.

“Lucas, I’m sorry. I knew something was off.”

“Not your fault,” he says. “We’ll figure a way out.”

My throat tightens at this show of loyalty. I have a history of getting people on my side. Holly, when I was a lonely kid and needed a best friend, despite the fact that she wanted and didn’t get more, romantically, from me; Danny . . . I push his wild brown curls and goofy grin away and move on to my audiences, who I also have to win over at every show. Lucas falls under the same category. Right from the start he worked to promote and protect me. Even the last guy I dated quickly believed in my abilities—I broke up with him when he mentioned having children someday and the old nightmare resurfaced.

I had the same bad dream throughout my childhood and it has never faded. It began with me walking up to a door that had peeling gray paint, a battered bronze knob. I knew that the door should never be opened; that on the other side monsters loomed, teeth bared, ready to strike. Still, so terrified that I lost control of my bladder, I reached for the knob. Every time I woke, the residue left was the baffling certainty that if I ever had my own child, she’d somehow invite death.

Lucas says, “Sylvie, you’re too quiet. Do not tell me that you’re considering that jerk’s offer.”

I see Dad’s hands, calloused, weatherworn. They point at my belly button and the contrary tree inside. “Thomas doesn’t expect me to say yes,” I hedge.

“Syl! This is a hurdle, not a cliff. Don’t you dare jump.”

“Why bring up my biological parents?” This has been what my mind keeps circling back to.

“That jerk is just trying to rattle you. What did your folks say about them?”