Harlan paced.
Not dramatically.
Not impatiently.
He walked exactly fourteen steps from one wall to another, turned, and walked fourteen back.
Again.
Again.
Again.
I sat in a plastic chair across from him wearing a blanket a nurse had found for me.
My waitress shoes squeaked every time I shifted my feet.
At twelve-thirty in the morning, a woman came hurrying through the waiting-room doors.
She was about Harlan’s age, maybe a little younger, with a long camel coat thrown over blue pajamas and her dark hair twisted into a careless knot.
“Harlan.”
He turned.
“Mara.”
She went straight to him.
“What happened?”
“Belle got separated from you.”
Mara closed her eyes.
“I know.”
He didn’t raise his voice.
That somehow made the sadness in her face worse.
“I thought she went downstairs with Theo,” Mara said.
“Theo thought she was with me.
I checked the rehearsal room, then the lobby, then—”
