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***

The room looked effortless, which meant hundreds of people had worked very hard to erase themselves.

The guests saw blue light, polished glass, and a suspended installation glowing above registration.

They saw dinner arriving in clean waves.

They saw the museum logo give way to a field of stars on cue.

They did not see me beside the control position with a radio at my hip, a backup cue sheet in my hand, and my attention divided into so many pieces that none of them belonged entirely to me.

The ballroom held the low, expensive murmur of eight hundred people eating beneath dimmed lights. Silver touched china. Servers moved between tables in black uniforms, appearing and disappearing at the perimeter. The stage waited under a narrow blue wash.

I stood behind the last row with my clipboard pressed to my ribs.

“Clear table four’s chair,” I said into the radio.

A banquet captain responded. “Copy.”

“Stand by house to half at eight-oh-six.”

“Copy.”

“Stand by video roll one.”

“Standing.”

I checked the south doors.

Clear.

North aisle.

Clear.

The stage stairs remained secured. The control position remained at forty inches from the occupied chair line. The decorative tree continued its quiet career as a stationary object.

Nothing happened.

For the first time all day, nothing kept happening.

I did not trust it.

“Priya.”

I turned.

Ansel Halloran stood a few feet away. He had been my employer for four years. He now behaved like a client who suspected he was allowed to be one.

“Ansel.”

“This is extraordinary.”

“Dinner service has begun. Program starts in three minutes.”

“I know. I have a program.”

“Good.”