He sat on the wooden bench and plunked a white key with his left hand. The low tone sounded ominous, a rumble from the deep. He plinked out a chirpy three-note melody with his right. Then he combined them both, improvising a song about a mean old storm cloud that Friends a chipmunk.

A girl’s hand grabbed his wrist before he could resolve a particularly brilliant chord progression. He looked up from the piano. She was familiar—and pretty, despite her ragged fashion sense—maybe an old fan or someone he knew from his performing arts middle school?

“Don’t quit your day job,” she said.

Somehow, her voice reminded him of a recent dream: a frantic escape, a journey north, a hole in the middle of the woods.

“How did you get in here?”

“Ambrose,” she said, “what’s wrong with you?”

All around the girl, shadows in the auditorium deepened and crept along the stage floor. He looked out at the rows of empty red seats, barely lit by the round lights in the domed ceiling above. This place was starting to make him uneasy.

“It’s me—Mistletoe!” She whipped a fluffy blue pigtail over her shoulder. He got a powerful whiff of pungent spices and coughed.

He thought he remembered the first time they met. Yes: it had been in a subcanopy alley. But why would he have been in a neighborhood like that?

She gave him a rough shake. “Your name is Ambrose Truax. We escaped from those two cops together. The creepy old brothers caught us. Magnus and Ivor, remember? Then we got split up. You’re Ambrose.”

He slid off the bench and backed away slowly, shaking his head. “My name is Adam,” he mumbled. “I’m supposed to sing tonight. I have to warm up.” His words felt wrong, like someone else was broadcasting from his mouth.

The lights went down in the auditorium. Harsh whispers came from the seats.

“We have to get out of here,” she said.

“This is where I belong,” he said weakly. “I’m happy here.” But he didn’t believe it. He didn’t know where he belonged.

Mistletoe tugged at his sleeve. Voices rained down from the darkened rows of seats.

“Sing!”

“Come on, Adam, play for us!”

“We love you!”

Mistletoe said, “Don’t listen.” She wrenched his arm and yanked him off the piano bench. He waved to his unseen fans as she dragged him back through the velvet curtain.

“Are we Friends?” he asked. He had the creeping sensation that she didn’t like him very much.

“Not in here.”