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associating any visual element with a character, even something as simple as light and shadow. Symbol supersedes culture. You don’t need a decoder to watch a well-crafted movie, no matter who made it.”
    Paul checked his watch. Almost over.
    “Thank you, Mr. Mercer.” Gloria consulted her notes. “The panelists will now take questions.”
    A college-age d woman in the front row raised her hand. “I wanted to ask Mr. Mercer—when you were at NYU, why’d you drop out of the directing program?”
    “Good question.” A few audience members laughed, but he did not smile. “ I got sick and tired of arguing with instructors with esoteric sensibilities who claimed the right to decide what was and was not a real film. I figured I could learn everything directing on my own instead of arguing semantics all day, so I switched to the acting program. Directors should learn more about what their actors do. Casting is extremely important.”
    “Do you still have your scars from Poppies Are Red ?” The woman asked. She whispered to the friend sitting next to her, who giggled.
    Gloria reminded the audience to restrict questions to symbolism and narrative.
    “It’s okay,” said Simon. “That leads me back to financing and my grant. Neither of those got me publicity or helped my work get seen. When I made Poppies , about kids who cut themselves, a friend called me a liar because I cut my arms before I went looking for people to film. But you have to have sympathy for your subject, or your movie is cold and your actors don’t trust you. My cuts got me on the news, and distribution. But people misunderstood; they thought I did it as part of the native tradition of the sun dance, where you hang from a pole from hooks in your flesh to celebrate the cycle of life.” He leaned back. “I had to tell them the only sun dance in my heritage is the film festival of that name. And that the native sun dance is a Lakota thing, not Métis.”
    Ten minutes left. Leah glanced toward the aisle.
    As Gloria announced the end of the session, Paul caught Leah’s arm before she could leave and asked her about their schedule for the rest of the day. The panelists stepped down from their seats into a crowd of audience members—all but Mercer, who slipped out a back door that film-festival security shut firmly behind him.
    “Paul,” Leah interrupted him. “Isn’t that your friend, the moderator? Gloria! How good to see you again!”
     
    1 1:06 a.m.
    Simon checked his cell phone for messages as he walked down the service hallway. Security promised him that this route was the fastest way past the crowd; he had an hour to finish pack-ing and catch a cab to LAX.
    The hallway stretched away in bands of light and shadow, dim-lit pastel green walls. Halfway to the elevators, two women appeared. One was petite, too well-dressed to be a hotel employee. Lithe legs, arms hanging loose. High-heeled boots.
    Familiar. His skin prickled.
    The petite woman paused by a water fountain, leaving him no room to get by, not without being rude. Nadia—that was her name. Behind her came the moderator from the panel, who almost collided with her when she stopped.
    “Mr. Mercer ,” Nadia said. She stood with one hand on the strap of her purse. A carved jade ring on her right hand—an intri-cately knotted design that could be a dragon or a fish.
    “ I hope you’ll forgive me about last night,” she said. “Nadia Weston,” she added and extended her hand.
    “ Simon Mercer.”
    Her hand felt surprisingly narrow in his. Strong grip, as if she wanted to prove something.
    H er collar, made of a silky white fabric, had caught under her lapel. He wanted to straighten it, touch it to see if it were as insubstantial as it looked. The buttons on her blouse, mother of pearl, gave off a rich sheen.
    “We’re on our way to security.” Gloria slid past them, looked over her shoulder.
    “I’ll be right there, Gloria,” said Nadia. “I wanted to talk to Mr. Mercer