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Keith and Chase had spent Tuesday through Thursday working nearly around the
     clock to edit their film. Constantly during that time, they were reminded that a production team could capture tremendous
     acting on film, but the magic — the real magic — happened here.
    In a ten-by-ten editing room.
    “Mark that.” Keith hit a button on the control panel, pushed back, and stood. He stretched and rubbed his weary eyes. “Dinner?”
    Chase squinted up at the plastic black-and-white clock, the only decor in the room. “Seven thirty.” He released a slow burst
     of stale air and hit another few buttons. The screen overhead went dark. “When did we eat lunch?”
    “We didn’t.”
    “Right.” Chase chuckled, then yawned. “Late breakfast.” He rose and rubbed the back of his neck. “The hours run together.”
    It was mid-November, and temperatures in Santa Monica hovered in the seventies, even at this hour. What little they’d seen
     of the day had been warm and blue and beautiful. Typical Southern California beach weather. Keith flipped off the light and
     locked the door behind them. Down a series of hallways and a flight of stairs and they were outside, a block away from Santa
     Monica’s Third Street Promenade.
    Keith drew a long breath. “The breeze feels good.”
    “It’s called real life.” Chase slipped his hands into his back pockets, his pace slow and thoughtful. “I keep forgetting it’s
     out here.”
    They both laughed this time. Their editing hours were crazy — work through midnight, walk back to the Georgian Hotel on Ocean
     Boulevard, climb the stairs to the second-floor two-bedroom suite they were sharing, and crash for five, maybe six, hours.
     Then back at it by seven in the morning. With the price they were paying for the editing room, they had to keep this pace.
     Besides, they had a deadline. Kendall had entered the film in a number of independent film festivals, and if any of them bit,
     they’d need a finished product by the end of the year.
    On top of that, they had a first-look deal with a major studio — something that guaranteed a DVD release, based on the actors
     the film had attracted. The problem with that deal was that the studio might not want a theatrical release. Putting a movie
     on the big screen cost millions, and rumor had it the studio was struggling. If the film didn’t make it to the theaters, there
     was a chance Chase and Keith wouldn’t recoup the money they’d spent making it. The investors would be repaid, but the producers
     would suffer the greatest financial loss.
    So the pressure was on in a number of ways.
    “The thing is —” Chase tilted his face toward the dusk sky overhead. “— even with all the madness, I love it.” He looked straight
     at Keith. “I mean I absolutely love it.”
    Keith smiled. He loved that Chase shared his enthusiasm. “I never imagined …”
    “I know.” Chase stopped for a red light. “It’s like we’re sitting on this amazing movie, and no one has any idea.”
    They walked north. In this part of the city, Third Street was blocked off, allowing tourists and locals the chance to shop
     and ogle at the artists stationed up and down the Promenade. Up ahead a man stood in the middle of the street, a makeshift
     spotlight shining up on him. Head to toe the guy was silver. Tinfoil around his clothes, silver spray paint covering his arms,
     hands, and face. He played a flute. Next to him, a cheap portable table held a glass jar containing a handful of bills.
    “Makes you wonder.” Keith watched a few seconds longer. “The guy just woke up one day and decided he wasn’t happy flipping
     burgers?”
    “At least he’s out here.” Chase grinned and started walking again. “Doing something.”
    “Using his talent.” Keith picked up his pace. “Pizza work for you?”
    “Absolutely.”
    They ordered by the slice — two each — at a small dive just off Third and ate the first piece back out on Third Street at
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