I cringe a little now, thinking about how I had forced her to let me use her as a little doll sometimes.

The welcome music kicks on outside, dreamy 1930s jazz. It doesn’t have anything to do with the plot or the show itself, but Aimee insisted that it lends a festive feel to any situation, and I couldn’t argue with that.

As soon as she hears it, Aimee inhales sharply. It’s almost time.

I look at the clock on the wall. Thirty minutes ’til curtain. Six hours until my flight. I just need to get past boarding time and I’ll feel safe here.

“Hey,” I say, smiling at Aimee and dropping my chin. “You’re fine. You don’t need to worry. Plus, I’m an old hand at this now. If you screw up, we’ll freestyle. No one else will know.”

She nods tightly. Then she says, “Meg, can I tell you something?”

I sit back. “Of course. Anything.”

“Last night—last night I had a really weird dream.”

“That always used to happen to me before a show. What was it?”

She bites her bottom lip, eyebrows tented fretfully. “We were in Florida. I was driving. I think—I think it might have been the—the … it was by that McDonald’s. The one that closed before midnight.”

Oh God.

“Shit.” I feel like my heart might disconnect from my body completely. “Are you serious?”

She nods. “It was scary, Meg. I thought you weren’t supposed to be able to die in dreams, but I just … and then I woke up.”

I reach out and put my arms around her. I squeeze her, even though she doesn’t, at first, hug me back.

“I don’t want to believe you,” she says, sniffing and pulling back. She uses a triangle of tissue to dab at her tears. “It feels impossible to accept it. It’s terrifying.”

“Would it make you feel better if I said I made the whole thing up?”

She scoffs. “No, God!”

I laugh sadly. “I wish I had.”

Her phone buzzes. She reads whatever pops up, then groans and says, “The bartender didn’t bring ice—dammit, how…” She texts back furiously.

I move away from her, feeling as though this whole world is starting to slip between my fingers like sand.

“Fifteen minutes,” says the stage manager, appearing in the doorway.

“Gah!” exclaims Aimee.

“It’s okay!” I say. “Look, don’t think about the dream. I’m sure it was your imagination. We talked about it. You’ve seen movies. Your brain probably repurposed a bunch of tragic stuff and turned it into a nightmare.”