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“Dulcie!” I shout over the wind and fire sirens. “I don’t think we can wait. I think we have to try to re-create what happened the night the wormhole was opened.”
Lightning crackles overhead. Dulcie gives me a push. “Go.”
By the time we reach the stage, the beach is black with smoke and the sky is as dark as a night without stars. A voice comes over the loudspeaker. “Ah, folks, I’m afraid those wildfires are getting a little too close for comfort, and the weather isn’t cooperating too much, either. We’re gonna have to shut down the concert.”
People boo loudly. A hulking security guard with a shaved head and biceps the size of giant poodles pushes people away from the stage. There’s no way to get closer.
“Shit! What do we do now?”
Dulcie looks around quickly. “I’ll get the crowd stirred up. You try to get the Copenhagen Interpretation to come out for one more song.”
Just like that, Dulcie starts zigzagging through the crowd, shouting, “Encore! Encore! ‘Words for Snow!’ C’mon!”
A few people take up a chant—“Words for Snow!”—and it swells. I try to slip under the security ropes. The big guy hauls me out without even breathing hard.
“I have to talk to the Copenhagen Interpretation!”
“Pal, everybody needs to talk to the Copenhagen Interpretation. Back off.” He pushes me back. Lightning zaps one of the hotels and then again near the stage. Car alarms go off. People get a little nervous.
I hold up my E-ticket bracelet, blocking the words with my fingers. “I’m press.”
The guy peers at it. “Aren’t you a little young to be press?”
“I won it. One of those Last Wish things.” I cough for effect.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the guy says. “I didn’t know.”
“Yeah. My last wish was to see the Copenhagen Interpretation play. And meet them.”
He shakes his head, slips me under the ropes, and points me toward the band huddled just offstage.
“Hello again,” the interpreter relays. “The sky is frowning.”
“Yes. It’s frowning big-time,” I say. Sweat beads on my forehead. “And it’s gonna get worse unless we stop it.”
As quickly as possible, I tell them my plan. They exchange glances.
“Will we end up in the shit again?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if this will work. But if we don’t try, the world’s gonna end very shortly.”
A tech guy makes his way over. “Sorry, guys. With the storm, it’s not safe to go back out. The concert’s been canceled.”
“What?” I shout. “No! You have to uncancel it!”
The tech guy shrugs in apology. “We just got these guys back. Can’t have ’em going up in smoke.”
“Please,” I beg, ignoring him. “Just one song.”
The Copenhagen Interpretation forms a tight huddle. Their heads bob in discussion. They call for their interpreter.
Murmur. Mur. Murmur. Stop.
“It’s like fishing in fake snow, checking your line.”
“Right.” I nod. I have no idea what they mean.
Against the advice of everyone at YA! TV, the Copenhagen Interpretation agrees to play one last song in the hopes it will send the fire giants and the wizard back through the Higgs Field to wherever they came from and close the wormhole so they can’t come back. A roadie ushers me out onstage. People cheer until they realize I’m not anybody. Down in the pit, Gonzo, Drew, and Balder shout my name anyway.
