“Ah, the duality of Viola,” said Ziggy, nodding approvingly. He stepped back, sweeping his arms across the stage. “The floor is yours.”

Imogen stood with uncharacteristic grace—like even that was something she rehearsed. Glided softly up the stairs and took to the center of the stage. Pressed her fingertips together like a prayer.

“I left no ring with her,” said Imogen. Her voice was an intense hush, her eyes suddenly big and wild with confusion. “What means this lady? Fortune forbid my outside have not charm’d her!”

Imogen delivered her lines with delicate fluster. Her gaze barely touched the page. This particular scene was when Viola suspected Olivia had a crush on Cesario—her male alter ego. It was also when she realized she was trapped in a love triangle. She liked Duke Orsino who liked Olivia who liked Cesario/Viola. What a fucking pickle. Imogen conveyed the essence of this pickle with a swooning sort of lamentation. It was funny, sad, and kind of perfect.

“O time! thou must untangle this, not I,” Imogen concluded. “It is too hard a knot for me to untie!”

Imogen finished with a skirtless curtsy in her pink jeans and sequined cable-knit sweater. Those of us who had a decent respect for humanity and genuine theatrical talent—meaning pretty much everyone but Jayden Hoxsie—applauded and cheered. Imogen smiled bashfully and retreated to her seat.

She tried to retreat, at least. Unfortunately, her curtsy did not unfold properly. The toe of one tennis shoe caught behind the other, and she biffed it, face-first. Her hair softly fell over her face like a burial shroud.

“Jesus Christ!” said Wynezra. She was already out of her seat, on her knees, helping Imogen up before any of us could swear properly. “Are you okay?”

Unlike me at Imogen’s last biffing, Wynezra was all hands aboard. Her hands found the right, appropriate places on Imogen’s shoulder and abdomen, pulling her up while she steadied herself on her hands and knees. When Imogen knelt upright, Wynezra brushed the hair out of her face. Particularly the matted lumps sticking to the blood between her nose and split upper lip.

I studied the art of Ezra Slevin being a hero to Imogen like a prophetic vision.

“Oh god,” said Wynezra. “We need to get you cleaned up. Here, let’s—”

By then, it seemed to sink into her head who she was and who she was not—aesthetically speaking.

“… let’s…” Wynezra stammered, “let Wynonna clean you up.” She sent me a “Get your ass over here” look, accompanied by a slight but demanding head gesture.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said, nodding like a complete idiot.

I hurried over, then hesitated awkwardly, fumbling for the best way to help Imogen up. She made things easy for me—grabbing my shoulder, pulling me down, and draping herself over me like a mink scarf.

“Okay…” I said, hoisting her up. “Here we go. Easy. Watch your step.”