The long-armed Santa was scanning the stage—he could see me, but I knew he was looking for Em. Stay down, stay with Nora, I was wishing for Em. I knew the snowshoer would come in low, level with the tall Santa’s ankles, but there was a wide-open space where the shooter was standing—there was no one near him. It was too big an area for Elliot Barlow to be exposed, I was worrying. Why didn’t Emory Trowbridge just shoot me—what was he waiting for? I was wondering. I’d watched him eject the shell from the first bullet. I’d seen him slide the bolt back and forward; I knew his second shot was in the chamber.

That night at the Gallows, I held my arms straight up, above my head; I waved my hands at Emory Trowbridge. I wanted the backup heavyweight to look at me, only at me. If he was looking at me, maybe he wouldn’t see the snowshoer coming—that was all I was hoping for. Trowbridge held the rifle butt tight to his shoulder, but he wasn’t sighting down the barrel. His indecision made no sense to me. He’d obviously planned this, but he’d stopped shooting. He definitely saw me; he was looking at me, with such loathing, when he suddenly turned his attention to the stage. We both did. People screamed when they saw Em standing onstage, not the same kind of scream as the caterwaul caused by the first gunshot. Em was covered with blood. It was Nora’s blood, I knew. The shooter surely knew whose blood it was. Trowbridge had wanted to shoot Em first; he’d taken aim at Em, before Nora put herself in harm’s way. Yet now, when Em just stood onstage, as still as a statue, the backup heavyweight hesitated. Did Trowbridge hesitate because Em was beseeching him to shoot her?

Em was a pro at pantomime; nothing could have been clearer. She was done with doing paralyzed by fear; she held out her arms to the shooter, palms up, the pose of a supplicant. Shoot me, the pantomimist was begging Emory Trowbridge. You killed the love of my life—please kill me, too. That’s what Em was saying. I started doing jumping jacks, like crazy. “Fuck you, Trowbridge!” I called to him. I just knew it would have killed me if he shot Em. “You were never in the Marine Corps—you never did anything!” I reminded him. But the way he looked back and forth, between Em and me, I knew I was no match for the pantomimist; she was better at beseeching, hands down.