A tap on the door interjects. “Mr. Bouchard?” It’s the tentative voice of the theater’s assistant manager. “You, um, have admirers waiting?”

Charles and I have more to say, much more, but not in our current state. Not if we want any chance of containing the damage.

Before he can dismiss me, I salvage my dignity by replying on his behalf. “Send them in. We’re done.” The double meaning isn’t intentional—or maybe it is. I exit and jostle past the small cluster of faceless fans in the hall.

In my dressing room, I lean back against the closed door. We’ve had disagreements before, but nothing like this. Anger and sadness spiral through me.

I bypass my change of clothes and grab only my brimmed hat and overcoat, my pocketbook. I’ll be returning tomorrow anyhow to pack for our next stop…

Or, perhaps, just to pack.

***

Moisture wells in my eyes as I bolt from the theater. I stride down the dark streets of Brooklyn, headed for my room at the boardinghouse. My vision adjusts to the night haze, aided by a three-quarter moon elbowing its way through the overcast sky. Cool sprinkles of autumn rain dot my legs, bare but for foundation mimicking stockings in an era of rationing, the seam line forged by a cosmetic pencil and a steady hand.

Steady… By morning, that’s how Charles and I will be. After our emotions dissipate, along with his booze, we’ll straighten out the snarls and swap apologies, meet in the middle. I block out the alternative.

Between the clacking of my heels, I catch a rhythmic sound. Faint footsteps behind me.

Glancing back, I spot a figure in the shadows a full block away. Charles immediately comes to mind—hopefully to set things right, rather than to unload another rebuke—but the man’s frame appears unfamiliar.

I quicken my pace.

The stranger seems to do the same.

The rumbling of a motorcar fades in the darkness. I clutch my pocketbook to the front of my coat, starkly aware of my scanty costume beneath and, even more so, of the unusually deserted route. No servicemen with their sweethearts. No locals walking their dogs. The rain, increasing now, has made people scarce.

“Liss!” A deep holler.

Or was it… “Miss”?

I brave another glance, only partially slowing. A fedora shields half the man’s face, leaving the rest a sketchy silhouette.

Unlike the copper-mining town of my childhood, New York teems with as many shady characters as dingy back alleys. I’ve skimmed enough big-city papers to know how unspeakably this could end.

The voice calls out again, muddled by my footfalls and a groan of thunder. I veer around a shuttered store at the corner.