There is a massive cheer from the crew, all of whom are beyond ready to wrap for the season. The firearm-safety guy comes over with great caution and takes the fake gun.

Devon pulls me toward him, then drags me over to video village, saying, “I gotta show you that last take. It was absolutely mesmerizing. You’re such a talent. I’m so glad Martin introduced us, and that I got to be the one to discover the great Lana Lord all those years ago.”

I am desperate to get the hell out of here—the stage lights, which have the heat of the surface of the sun, and the many bodies in here have made this place a sauna—but I go with him, ignoring the way his hand has drifted down to my lower back. He seems to assume that since he’s gay, I won’t mind.

I sigh, too worn out to bat it away like I usually do.

“Take it back to right after Velma’s monologue,” he says to the camera operator. “Yeah, right there, right there.”

He hovers two fingers in front of the monitor, and between them I notice where his spray tan has settled into the webbing. Then he hands me a pair of headphones and I hold one ear to mine and watch.

I never get used to it. Seeing myself this way. The blazing lights make my eyes look bluer and clearer than they are, and the waist cincher beneath my dress gives me an impossibly angled silhouette. Not to mention the fake eyelashes, the big-hair wig, the intense contouring, and the actual nose job I might never fully adjust to.

In post, they’ll retouch us all to death, giving us that soapy, perfect look. It’s good that they do, because it’ll make a Botoxer out of anyone to see themselves this close up, unedited. No line or pore can hide from these cameras.

Falling for the hyperclear image myself, I wonder if a little more Botox wouldn’t hurt. It’s such a slippery slope. Once you put it here you need it over there, and suddenly you’re getting injections in your earlobes and don’t know what happened. I talked to someone at a party once who said she got her knees injected after seeing someone on Instagram say that they looked like angry hobbits.

I saw the picture and they weren’t totally wrong, but frankly everyone’s knees look stupid when you stare at them long enough.

“You look good, kid.”

I sigh deeply and give Devon a loaded look. “Thanks.”

He juts his chin and gives me a look back. “I know this isn’t exactly what you had in mind when you made your deal with the Hollywood devil,” Devon says, his voice low. “Hell, it’s not the deal any of us thought we were making. But it worked.”