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blinded momentarily by the darkness, which was cut only by the dot of light way down front on stage. With the exception of a piano, the stage was empty. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out the outline of four people sitting in the first few rows of the audience. Three were sitting together and one was sitting a couple of rows behind on the aisle.
    The light from the briefly opened door made the lone sitter turn.
    “Who’s there?” he shouted.
    “Elizabeth?” It was so tentative it sounded more like a question than an answer.
    “Elizabeth?”
    “Yes.”
    “Get out!”
    Her first instinct was to flee, but before she could, one of the other three, a large square figure, jumped up. From the back of the theater Elizabeth could see from the outline what was kindly referred to as an ample woman.
    “Easy, Will,” the woman said gently to the man who had shouted, her voice softened by a pleasant Texas accent. She called out to Elizabeth, “Are you from New York magazine?”
    “ Show Survey ?” Another question, not answer.
    “Not New York magazine?”
    “No. Show Survey…”
    “ Show Survey ?”
    “You know the Zagats…”
    “The giveaway,” the man next to her said.
    “Well, actually we don’t give it—”
    “That’s okay, honey. You come on down here.” The woman took a few steps over to the shouter, leaned over, and whispered something in his ear. Elizabeth could see him put his feet up on the seat in front of him. He was the only one who didn’t turn when she got closer.
    “I’m Bala Trent,” said the big woman, putting out her hand. “I’m one of the producers, and the man with the big welcome is your subject, Will Connolly, the writer. You’re Elizabeth, right?”
    Elizabeth shook the producer’s outstretched hand and smiled at the others, who stopped talking and turned to greet her. No one else got up.
    Pointing to the two seated men, the producer said, “That’s Bob Ross, our director, and Neil Quest, our music director.”
    Both mumbled a pleasant How do you do, and turned back to their conversation.
    “Elizabeth Wakefield,” Elizabeth said to their backs.
    “Why don’t you sit here, next to Will?” The producer pointed to the empty seat next to the writer, but Will didn’t move his legs, effectively blocking Elizabeth from his row.
    “That’s okay,” said Elizabeth. “I’ll just sit here.” She moved into the seat just behind the writer.
    The producer stepped over Will’s legs gracefully, considering her girth, and took a seat one away from him.
    Elizabeth was dressed properly for the outside summer heat but very underdressed for the chilly theater. Everyone else, professionals knowing what to expect, had on sweaters.
    “Sean!” the producer called out. From the wings, Sean, the same stagehand Elizabeth had met outside, stepped onstage. A thin, awkward-looking young woman came on behind him. With a birdlike nod to the spectators, she creased her cheeks in a quick smile, walked to the piano, and sat down. And didn’t look up again.
    “Let’s have the next one.” Sean waved to someone backstage, and a dark-haired, handsome man of about twenty-five stepped out, walked over to the piano, and handed the pianist some sheet music.
    “Hi.” He turned to the audience of five. “I’m Mark Evans.”
    “Hey, Mark,” one of the two men sitting in the front called out.
    Mark shielded his eyes, squinting as he peered out into the audience.
    “It’s me, Bob. How’re you doing?”
    “Pretty good … up to now.”
    Bob and the man next to him chuckled. “What are you going to do for us?”
    “‘The Colors of My Life.’”
    “Great. I love Barnum .”
    The young woman at the piano played the intro and Mark Evans sang.
    Someplace around the fifth bar, Bob stopped him and asked for a few bars of another song, something lighter and faster; the actor obliged. There was a little chatter, and then the director turned to Will and Bala and with an