Beside the cabinet, I wait on my mark, hand on hip. Calm and confident. Already Charles should be free of his cuffs. They’re merely trick pairs, the norm for underwater acts. I deftly swapped out the real ones after the volunteers examined them. Though certain of this, I furtively confirm their distinctive weighted feel in the lower pockets of my skirt, among the many hidden compartments I’ve designed for our acts.

Forty-five seconds.

A good portion of the crowd yields to their lungs. A smattering of ladies giggle at their own folly. Fellows tend to hold out longer, surely sneaking air through their noses while attempting to impress their dates or protect their pride, likely both.

All the while, through the strategically blaring music I listen for hints of the outer neck sliding from the can. That simple step is all the escape requires. A person could finagle it deaf or blind. Drunk, even—not that Charles is. Yes, he’s become one to indulge, at times heavily these days, but after the show, never before.

Until now.

One minute.

Heat pours from the stage lights in compounding waves. Sweat prickles my scalp, my updo tightening against its pins. The last few holdouts in the auditorium are gasping for air. At any moment, a stagehand should emerge with an ax to boost anticipation, as if ready to bust through the cabinet and break off the padlocks. But that ax now lies in pieces.

At least destroying the handle didn’t damage the can, so far as I could tell.

Oh, why didn’t I stall for a closer look?

One minute thirty.

Thoughts of another escape artist barge into my mind: Genesta. His is a cautionary tale to promote double- and triple-checking. The famed performer failed to notice a critical dent in his milk can from being dropped during setup, preventing the lid’s upward slide. His fatal, final act.

It’s for this reason I demanded Charles practice for months, stretching his lungs in baths—up to three minutes, three seconds by my pocket watch—and why we use only a lid that reserves air at the very top.

Granted, tonight his compromised state could make all those precautions worthless.

Two minutes.

“Hey, toots!” The same heckling sailor. “So much for your pal’s superpowers, huh?”

His jeering this time is largely lost to others’ worries, evident in faces and fidgets and murmurs. The reactions, which I normally relish, feel like viruses invading the room.

I train my gaze on the cabinet hinges. Only recently did I agree to remove the outer latch—Charles’s idea, for heightened drama—but with one provision: an inch-wide gap at the corner would allow me a peek if needed.