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 refuses to go to the stage. She feels along the dark walls for any other door and finds a narrow service hatch. It opens onto a staircase going down. Taped to the first step, in her handwriting: "Down here is the prompt room. Everyone who ever forgot a line is still in it, waiting to be cued."