“Just this one, then we’ll break for a half hour,” Rusen said. “Places.”
The whole room was focused on Bernard, but my focus was split between the actors and Kick, who was practically quivering.
“Going hot. In five, four, three, two. Now.”
And Bernard ran under the lights, tripped over his own feet, rolled with a crash into a stand of greenery, and got up again, looking dazed. No one yelled cut, no one made a sound, but Kick twitched. Bernard leapt over a chair and rolled again.
“And cut.”
No applause.
“Bernard, are you good to go again?” Rusen said.
He nodded.
This time he ran, leapt, rolled, and by Kick’s gush of relieved breath I understood it had gone well. Everyone was grinning. I was, too.
“Thirty minutes, people,” Rusen shouted. “Thirty minutes.”
“Excuse me,” Dornan said, and headed to the bathroom. The huge main doors rolled open, and the brilliance of the lights dimmed for a moment until my eyes adjusted to the different spectrum of the sun. A roar started near the ceiling. Someone had remembered the AC. People flowed out into the sunshine.
Kick and I turned to each other. We stood close enough for me to see the loose weave in the stripe that ran over her hipbone.
“I got your flowers,” she said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. You’re looking well.”
“You’ve lost weight.”
“It’s hard to eat when food tastes like something shoveled out of a crematorium. ”
Her face sharpened with professional interest. “Still?”
“Worse, if anything.”
“And I thought it was just people not wanting to get drugged again— not eating my food. Jesus. Okay.” She nodded to herself. “Okay. What tastes the worst?”
“Scrambled eggs.”
“Other eggs?”
“Any eggs. Especially boiled. And milk smells terrible. I’ve been drinking my tea without.”
“Butter?”
“Not good.”
“In what way?”
“Sulfur and smoke.”
“Fish?”
“Some are fine. Some aren’t.”
“But fruit is good.”
“Yes. Not all vegetables.”
She was nodding again. A wisp of hair slid gracefully from its clip. “Like broccoli.”
“Yes. How did you know that?”
She brushed aside the question, briskly, impersonally, like a doctor. This isn’t about me, it’s about you. “I have some ideas about what might taste good. Though, hmmm, is it the taste or the smell?” She was talking mostly to herself.
“Everything would taste better if I could find whoever did this and bang their head on the wall.”
She laughed. “That sounds like you mean it.”
I shrugged. “It’s what I do.”
“I thought you owned things.”
“That, too.”
The stripes in her trousers flared and stretched from waist to hip, ran in muscled lines down her thighs. Someone brushed by me. I turned, glad of the distraction. Peg and Joel, carrying milkshakes, laughing for a change. Behind them was Bri, the bony-faced teenager, and his friend, with greasy paper sacks. His brother was dying, and he could still eat.
“Fast food,” Kick said, misinterpreting my look. “No one even drinks my coffee anymore.”
“Then why do you stay?”
“Because I’m stubborn. They won’t be willing to eat fast food forever. And the minute they change their mind, I’ll be ready.”
“All right. How about now?”
She looked me up and down, raised her eyebrows. I nodded. “Okay, then.” She took off the fan, dropped it on the counter, and busied herself with the urn. “It’ll take a minute to make fresh.”
“No cream.”
“No cream.”
People were flowing back in. Cool air eddied from the door and the ceiling. Once she had the coffee on, she got a can of soda from the fridge. Instead of popping it open, she ran it across her forehead and the inside of her wrists.
I laid my hand on hers. “Not the wrist.” Her hand was so small. “Lots of nerves in the wrist and the side of the neck. If you put something cold there for long enough, those nerves will send a message to the rest of the body saying, Hey, it’s cold out here, and all the peripheral blood vessels will close to preserve heat. Those blood vessels are what dissipate heat. So if they close, you won’t cool down. Here.” She let me take the can. I ran it slowly down the outside of her arms, smearing condensation over her smooth skin. I took her hands, one by one, rubbed the can over the backs then palms, tilted her chin, followed the curve and hollow of her face, slid the can to the back of her neck.
She looked up at me. “It was good, what you did with that rent-a-cop. Just leading him out without fuss. Maybe you just act nicer when you wear a dress.” I didn’t say anything. “You said last week that you wanted my help.”
“Yes.”
“Let’s trade. I talk to you, I get you as my food guinea pig.”
“All right.”
“Then come to my house for dinner. Supper. Nine o’clock. You know where it is.”
“Yes.” I brought the can back to her cheek. Moisture from the can trickled down her neck, as far as her collarbones, which rose and fell, rose and fell. I wondered if the water would still be cool or whether it would have warmed running down her skin. “If you really want to stay cool, you should wet your hair. The heat generated by your head will dry it, and the evaporation will cool you down.”
“What are you doing?”
We turned. Dornan. Holding a red-cardboard-bound script.
Kick stepped away and took the can from me in one smooth move. “She’s telling me to go soak my head, in the nicest possible way.” She put the soda back in the fridge, got herself a bottle of water.
“You should use the fan I got you.” Kick pretended not to hear him.
“Is that the script?” I said.
“What? Oh, yes. Here.” He held it out. “You should read it.”
The air conditioner fell silent.
I hefted the script in one hand. Nine o’clock. “I’m going back to the hotel,” I said to him. “I’ll give you a ride.”
“Oh, I think I’ll stay awhile,” he said. “But thanks.”
OUTSIDE, IT WAS STILL OVER SEVENTY DEGREES. INSIDE, THE BASEMENT AIR-CONDITIONING unit set in the wall rattled like a garbage disposal with a spoon stuck in it. I turned it off. It would get hot. Tough.
I handed out the five polystyrene weapons and lined the women up opposite their unarmed partners.
“A lot of us are scared when we face an edged weapon—a big knife, a broken bottle, a razor. If and when that ever happens to you, the first thing you do is breathe, the way we learnt two weeks ago. Do it now.” They did. In. Out. “Now that you’re sure you won’t pass out, the next step is to demystify the weapon. Look at the weapon—Tonya’s bottle, Kim’s bread knife, Sandra’s razor, Suze’s ice pick, Jennifer’s KA-BAR—and ask yourself: Why is your attacker carrying a weapon in the first place? To boost their confidence? To instill fear in you, his victim? To hide behind it in some way? Then you ask yourself what the potential power of the weapon is. How sharp at the tip? Is it edged? How long is it? What kind of damage can it do? So, for example, an ice pick isn’t very long, and it’s not much use for slashing or bludgeoning, but it’s great for stabbing.”
Suze gave Kim a superior look.
“And Kim’s bread knife,” I said to her, “while it might not be very sharp, nor have a stabbing point, can be used, with sufficient force, to take your nose, or your head, right off.”
They nodded, but they had no notion of the sheets—the rivers, the lakes—of blood, or how much muscle it took to saw through flesh and then bone.