We spy on the Saturdays from the wings. “They’re better than us,” Béa says.
“Nah, we warmed up the audience for them. And that horseback skiing bit was totally rehearsed,” Jason scoffs.
“They better not be at the Kraken afterward. Or else.” Sharon makes murder eyebrows. “Everyone’s gonna be there, right?”
I join the chorus of yeses, even though it feels wrong not to be going home. It feels like my mistakes compound with every second I’m not knocking on Tobin’s door.
But he asked for time. What can I do but say yes?
There’s much more applause for the Saturdays than for us. I join in, but Sharon grabs my hand. “Shut it down, Liz. We’re nothere to clap for them when they didn’t clap for us. Fuck being classy, I’m googling how to slash a tire.”
Sharon’s hardly proper, but her straight spine and excellent diction, combined with threats and profanity, make Béa scream.
The theater explodes into sound just as the Tuesdays take the stage, an eruption of unsilenceable shrillness. Every phone in the audience howls, lighting up as people pull them from pockets and purses.
In the front row, Stellar cries out.
“Liz,” she screams, bolting out of her seat. “Liz Lewis! Does anyone know where Liz Lewis is?”
I push through the stunned Tuesdays to the front of the stage. “Stellar?”
She turns her phone. “AMBER ALERT” flashes at the top of the screen.
“It’s Eleanor.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
The “group mind” happens when players pay such close attention to each other—hearing, remembering, and respecting everything—it feels like they share one brain. Brilliance is often the result, in partnership as in improv.
—The Second Chances Handbook
Nights are cold in the mountains, no matter what the season.
Knowing I need to feel useful, Jason lets me arrange silvery thermal blankets at the first aid station, which consists of a card table, some basic supplies, and thermoses of coffee donated by heartsick neighbors. He’s here to patch up cuts and scratches sustained by searchers. Any serious injuries will go to the paramedic crew, whose rig is standing by behind the taped-off perimeter.
Standing by for Eleanor.
My insides drop like I’m trapped on an endless monster coaster ride whenever I think her name.
Mom and Dad booked the first flight tomorrow morning. They made me swear to text them every hour, whether we have newsor not. Amber—I can’t even imagine what she’s going through. Her puffy, tear-reddened face presses against the uniformed chest of a search and rescue official.
It feels bad not to be someone Amber would turn to, but that’s not a role I can take on without her permission.
Stellar pops over to give me a long, rocking embrace. “You sure you want me to go? I can stay, if you need someone.”
“No, go. Eleanor needs you more than I do.”
“Okay. I’ll see you soon. With Eleanor.”
She jogs toward the expanding mass of searchers. I swallow a painful amount of gratitude at the sight of all the locals suiting up, many of them guides from West by North.
McHuge clips a two-way radio to his waist next to a coil of rope; Stellar adjusts some borrowed, too-big gear on her petite frame. He tentatively reaches out to tighten her headlamp, fingers careful to touch only the straps. Nearby, Stéphane and Béa whisper in rapid French, showering each other with reassuring touches disguised as gear checks.
And Tobin. He’s here, like I knew he would be.
He dips his chin my way, mouth tight, before joining the rough circle of climbers and skiers and trekkers in battered boots and weather-resistant layers. They all know the risks of this territory in the dark.
Eleanor, in the dark.
