My yearning to do so swells, bridled by his own stipulation: even if concerned, I wasn’t to look until the three-minute mark. We’re not there yet, I know this, with every second an impossibly slow tick. Charles’s reasoning is technically sound; he’s never once faltered escaping the can, and an overt gauging of progress would dilute the act. Particularly in the mind of a critic.

But then, so would a drowning.

The decision is my call, and I’m making it.

I move with a purposeful stride to the far corner of the cabinet, as if following a choreographed routine. With a few sharp tugs, I form a narrow opening and glimpse inside. The lid appears in place, same for the padlocks, a sign of all going right. Or horrendously wrong.

My eyes strain for a fuller view, for any sight of Charles. But there’s nothing…

Scenarios skitter through my head, of his fainting underwater—as even Houdini’s skillful brother once did—or passing out from the booze, or having the keys lodged in his throat. Whichever the case, the trick is over.

“Charles! Can you hear me?” The musicians trample my voice, their notes like bootheels squashing each syllable. I snap toward the pit. “Stop!”

The song ends raggedly, giving way to dull thunks. Not from the musicians but from Charles. Muffled by water, handcuffs are striking the can. The lid must be stuck!

Suddenly there’s quiet, an audible ceasing of metal against metal. The absence of sound is smothering. I stave off panic, remembering the ax—what’s left of it.

“Hold on, I’m coming!” Heart hammering my ribs, I scramble to retrieve the head of the ax from the stage floor. I clutch its handle, a jagged stump, and thrust the blade through the cabinet gap, trying, trying to break the latch. Failing. Pain shoots through my palm. Splintered wood tears at my skin.

At the vision of him inside, trapped in darkness and starved for air, ancient memories creep from the caverns of my mind, of tangled limbs and muffled cries, an endless procession of caskets in the snow.

I block them out, seeking a solution.

Whatever am I doing? The cabinet can be toppled. This is the means of backup that Charles claimed would never be required. Like the ax he destroyed, the keys he swallowed.

I drop the blade and start shoving the cabinet with both hands. The triangular structure slides and clunks against the can, refusing to tip. I scan the wings for the stagehands. Why aren’t they there? Where did they go?

I’ve forgotten the crowd. Patrons stare with hands over mouths, perplexed, questioning. Many are half-risen from their seats, clutching the arm of a neighbor. Unblinking eyes stare down from the balcony.

“Please, help,” I yell. “Anyone!”