"Dude?" Zander whispers. "You think you can stand?"
We all know that if Chance can’t get up, we won’t have a guitar player, and we’re the fucking headliner. Canceling the show is not an option. With so many people in attendance, it could turn into a riot.
"Oh, we got a set to play," Chance mutters as if his memory has finally returned.
"Yes." I nod. "We’re the headliner. Remember?"
Chance attempts to push himself off the couch to no avail.
Time seems to pass in uneven intervals as Justice and Zander attempt to get Chance up.
"Just leave him," I snap, dropping to my knees beside our guitarist. His skin is ghostly under the harsh light of the dressing room. "Look at him! He needs a hospital, not a fucking stage."
Angelo's eyes flash with desperation. "We can't cancel. Not now. First of all, the label will have our heads. Second, have you seen that crowd? We’ve got over a hundred thousand people who paid a lot of money to see you guys play."
I glance toward the door, where anticipation seems to seep through from outside—an invisible tide pressing against the thin walls, ready to burst at any moment.
"What do you suppose we do?"
"We can ask Jeff," Zander suggests. Jeff is the guy who plays guitar for the band that went on before us.
"He doesn’t know the songs," Justice says.
"It’s better than no guitar at all," I argue.
"Fuck Jeff," Chance mumbles, waving his hands haphazardly. "I got it. Just give me a minute."
But a minute turns into five, then ten, then fifteen.
Eventually, there’s a knock on the door. The tour manager's checking on us. Angelo steps out for a moment to talk, thenreturns wearing an even darker expression. He orders everyone but the three of us to leave.
As soon as the door shuts, he says, "Not performing is not an option tonight. The crowd is drunk and getting rowdy. He has to go on."
"He can’t." I motion at Chance’s slumped form.
"Where does he keep his stash?"
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"I mean where does his keep his drugs?" Angelo stresses every word with a frown creasing his forehead.
"You want to shoot him up?" Justice whispers the question.
"Do you idiots understand what will happen with a crowd like the one we have here tonight if you don’t go on? I don’t want a repeat of St. Louis in ’91. Do you?"
"We’re better off asking Jeff or some other guitarist," I persist. "We’ve got options. It’s not like we’re the only band on the bill."
"Not when we have to be on stage in the next ten minutes."
Another insistent knock.
"What?" Angelo barks.
The door cracks open and a face pops into the room. I’ve seen the guy around. He’s with the organizers. "Hey, guys. Everything good?" he asks with heavy German accent. "It’s getting pretty wild out there. People are starting to get a little anxious."
I check the time on my phone. It’s five minutes past the announced set time.
"We’re almost ready," our manager replies. Then as soon as the door closes, he turns to us and says, "Get me some H. Now."
