The tree finished its descent, taking the power lines with it. And then the transformer blew.
At the epic boom, everyone jumped in their shoes or out of their seats. More than a few people screamed. The company stumbled around the dark theater, clutching their chests, groping for hands, finding each other, gasping with both fright and the laughter of a near-miss.
In the chaos, nobody noticed Erik Fiskare had run away.
He had been in the lighting booth, of course. The explosion and the piercing feedback had him immediately on his feet. Those rapid bursts of crackling static—two quick, a pause, then a third—and then that final apocalyptic detonation. It all came back to him. He ran. Not toward the stage this time, but away, far away in the farthest direction he could find. He hid in a corner of the dark, empty green room, shaking, trying to pull himself together, to come back to the here and now.
Miles Kelly finally found him. “Well, here you are.”
The beam of a flashlight played around Erik’s body, hunched over in a chair. His hands were tucked tight under his legs because it was the only way to keep them from shaking.
Here I am, he thought.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” Erik said. His voice was an adolescent squeak. He cleared his throat. “Just… I wasn’t feeling well. Just need a minute.”
Miles took a step closer, peered at him in the milky beam of light. Erik gave him a weak smile, then immediately looked away for the smile was too weak a dam for the flood of hysterical weeping behind it.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m fine, I just need a minute.”
“Do you want me to get you some water?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“I’ll be back. I’d leave you the flashlight but it’s pitch black in the halls.”
“I’m fine, you take it.”
Once Miles was gone, Erik pulled his hands free and let the shaking overcome him. In the dark, his teeth chattered. He was going to be sick. He couldn’t be sick here. He couldn’t move, either. He put his head down on his knees, counted his breaths, prayed to disappear.
Please stop. Make it stop. Make this stop.
You will feel nothing.
The door to the green room opened and shut. Footsteps approached. With a great effort, Erik arranged his face and picked up his head, squinted toward the beam of the flashlight. “That you?”
“It’s Janey.”
She held out the bottle of water to him, watched as he fumbled the cap off and spilled most of it down his shirt trying to drink.
“What’s the matter, Erik?” she said. She sat down next to him, put a light hand on his back. She was kind, one of the kindest women Erik knew. He liked her. He thought maybe he could trust her.
“What frightened you?” she asked.
“The sounds,” he whispered.
“In the theater just now?”
“Yes.” He took another, more controlled sip of water.
“Drink slow,” she said.
He exhaled roughly. Pulled more air in. Beside him, Janey sat patiently, neither pressing him to explain, nor dismissing him.
“I lied to you about something,” he finally said. “I didn’t transfer from Buffalo. I was at Lancaster University.”
Janey inhaled sharply through her nose, then made a small noise in her throat. “You were there during the shootings?”
Teeth clenched tight, he nodded.
Her hand pressed against his back, and her other hand crept around his fingers. “Were you in the theater when it happened?”
“Yeah.” He held tight to her.
“I see,” she said. “The static and feedback and the explosion. All of it must have reminded you.”
“I think so. I think that’s what happened. What’s happening.”
“You’re having a flashback.” Her arm was fully around him then, pulling him close. “It’s perfectly understandable.”
A fresh round of shaking gripped his limbs. He tried to laugh. “This is just really weird.”
“Sometimes our brains forget but our bodies remember.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you lose friends?”
“My girlfriend was shot,” he whispered.