Voice steady. Sniff. Leaning into the street to see the signs. Xie reaching to pull her back. Her arm out to ward him off. Yes. There’s five of us. She hangs up. When their cab comes they squeeze in. Erik pure tension, Jo stroking Leni’s hand. Xie’s forehead against the glass. Karen rubbing the back of her skull. At the hotel Xie heads straight for bed, covers up, clothes on. Click of the door and Erik in the hall, with Jo. This is the second time, he says. The second time you’ve put my son in danger. What are you talking about, Jo says. Erik insisting: You said it would be peaceful. Of course I thought it would be, she says, but Erik stops her, voice rising just a step higher. Did you know that group would be there? What group? Jo, don’t play dumb. The kids with the masks. Why do you assume they’re all kids? Erik’s voice rising. So you did know. Erik— Don’t call me Erik. I’m not one of your friends, Jo. Jo’s quick blink, Okay, Mr. Lauridsen. I anticipated some tension but I didn’t know there would be a fucking riot, Jesus. But that’s what you want, isn’t it? Erik says. What do you mean? Look at your hand, Jo. You hit a man in the face. It took you a split second. So you tell me. Did you bring us all down here to watch you— Jo cutting him off, Hey, wait a second, I didn’t ask you to come, I didn’t ask anyone to come, okay, it was Xie— Erik snorting, Am I wrong? Is there someone else in charge here? Jo raises her hands. I’m not responsible for what anyone else does. I’m sorry it got crazy but that’s not what I intended and I certainly didn’t start anything. Sometimes people get hurt and that’s a risk we take. No, Erik says, it’s a risk that you took, that you decided was acceptable. How irresponsible can you be? And Jo’s frustrated inhale, chin trembling but she presses her lips together, hard, to stop it. We’re fine, she insists. Erik shaking his head. No, no, we’re not. Didn’t you see how he just folded up out there? He can’t protect himself, he won’t. You don’t know what he was like, before we came here, okay, you didn’t see him lying in bed day after day, ready to cut his goddamn throat because of all this shit in his head, he just takes it in and he can’t—he doesn’t know what to do with it, and you want him to keep shoving his face in it, when it’s—it’s enough! Staring at Jo, who stares back. Deep breath. Look, whatever you’re afraid of, whatever he’s afraid of, it’s already happening, okay? And he wants to do something about it. If there was some other option, some fantasyland where everything is going to be fine as long as we bury our heads in the sand, then believe me, I’d take it.