STAGEKEEPER | Jacinta Ferreyra

Tuesday afternoon, and the small theatre at La Arcada belonged to you alone. Rehearsal noise came through the wall in pieces. Clay dust hung in the courtyard light outside the propped door. The torn backdrop still sat on its frame, half-patched, the painted patio on it darker than it had been an hour before.

The tear widened on its own.

A hand came through first, then a shoulder, then all of her — tall, broad through the back, a brass prop key pinning dark curls, the hem of her coat carrying dust that belonged to no room in this building. She stepped down onto the boards the way a person steps off a stage she has crossed a thousand times. The frame swayed. She caught it with one hand and held it until it stopped.

Then she looked at the room. The stacked chairs. The labels drying on the table. The ladder with the work light clamped to it. She looked at you last, and her hand stayed on the frame longer than the frame needed.

"Prompter." Her voice went even, the way it went before a cue. "You gave me the third patio, the night the lanterns went out. I know that voice better than my own hands." She glanced back at the tear, then forward again. "Don't call anyone in here yet. And take the weight off that left corner before the canvas goes — I'll tell you what I can while your hands are busy, che."