His expression stalls. With an element of surprise reversing our roles, I press on. “At least tell me it was the first time you’ve been dim-witted enough to drink before a show.”

The plea is real. I need to believe I haven’t missed previous signs.

Gathering himself, he insists, “It was the first, all right? But it was nothin’.”

I nearly laugh. “You cannot possibly be serious.”

“Only a few nips with the stagehands while ironing out details.”

I clench my teeth, unsure which bothers me more: his cavalier take on risking our livelihoods—with more than a “few nips” no doubt, and perhaps even between our acts—or that I had been ganged up on, in a show of my own creation.

Fuming, I shift back to the vanity. I’m tempted to hurl my wooden brush his way, but I resist. A lump to his skull, though much deserved, could interfere with the conclusion of our three-day run tomorrow, and I’m in no mood for another debacle. Including at our next stop, a promising venue in Boston. For now, my hairpins will have to take the brunt.

I yank each one free, tossing them aside. My twist unravels in a light-bronze mess as I steer toward matters of business. “We’ll need a replacement ax. And a new latch if it’s damaged.” I meet Charles’s gaze in the mirror. “Naturally, they’ll come out of your share of the wages.”

“Yeah. Sure. Why not?” His indifference to any drain on his “hard-earned dough” suggests a touch of guilt. Or maybe it’s the imbibement. “I’ll grab them at a hardware store in the mornin’.”

I’m about to reinforce that he’ll do just that when I envision, a mere day from now, revisiting that dratted cabinet. Although a kiddie show is taking our last matinee slot, leaving us just an evening performance, I still think better of it.

A change is in order.

“I’ll get them myself.”

“Ah, c’mon,” he groans. “There’s no need.”

He thinks I’m being dramatic.

I’m being practical.

“I have to buy new pieces of wood anyway. For the time being…” Reluctant, I finish: “We’re shelving the Milk Can Escape.”

His forehead scrunches. But then he sits up, comprehending. “You mean we’re swapping it for the Goblet?” The hope in his voice makes me wince. I detest that the switch seems a reward for tonight, yet my desire to resume control, at least behind the scenes, wins out.

And so I nod.

He celebrates with a clap. “Hot dog. Finally!”

Despite his harping—about our timing and maneuvering being fine-tuned for almost two months—I’d refrained from incorporating the flashy finale, even at theaters with workable layouts like the one offered here. Though I’ve had my reasons.