The Verrick Theatre sits an hour past the last gas station, a black stone box with no sign out front. They gave Mara the lead after one phone call. The actress before her, Lenore, walked out mid-run, and nobody will say where she went. In her dressing room, taped to the mirror at eye level, is a single index card. The handwriting is Mara's own. It reads: "You will read this and not run. Good. We start at eight."

Mara grabs her bag and heads for the lobby doors to leave. They're locked from the inside, no handle, just smooth metal. A speaker crackles overhead in her own voice: "I told you. You won't run. Curtain is at eight. Go learn your lines." The hallway lights start shutting off one by one behind her.

Mara runs back toward the stage, the only lit place left. On the boards stands a woman in a red dress, frozen mid-gesture, like a paused video. It's Lenore. Her lips move with no sound. Mara steps closer and finally hears it: "Say my last line for me. Then I can go."