And mixed into it all, far away though right in front of her, was herself—not an image of herself, but herself—floating in midair, arms extended, legs gathered up, as her audience sat in astonishment.

“You okay?” came Megan’s voice.

The music was playing, Myron was waiting, she still smelled smoke, she could feel herself floating above the floor, arms extended, legs gathered up—and somewhere far away she felt terrified.

She blinked, gawked, looked about, tried not to lose sight of the coffee shop, but it had vanished around one of many corners and all she could see was a long hallway submerged in tea and she was floating between floor and ceiling, helpless, carried along on a slow current like a leaf in a river. The ghostly shapes like people became doctors, nurses, aides in scrubs and uniforms, and then the place became places, and places within places, a swirling soup of hospital rooms, doctors, a gurney, wall posters, offices, doctors, IV unit, exam room, nurse, wheelchair, smell of smoke, operating room—huge lights, blurred, streaked—curtains, doors, beds, more doctors, visitors, a lab with microscopes, an old man in bed, nurses, orderlies, hallway tilting and reeling, an elevator—it sucked her in, spit her out, there was a huge door locked up tight with red letters on it, a blinking keypad. She drifted toward it with no will of her own, no choice, no chance, no time …

She was inside, in the dark, surrounded by electric hums, fluid gushing through pipes, air rushing through ventilators, and far away, muttering voices. Red and green numbers flashed from consoles. Little green, red, yellow, and blue lights glowed out of the dark like stars on a clear night. She could smell something burning, like singed hair.

An orange glow drew her and she saw two faces in flickering light.

Lemuel and Clarence?

Floating like a ghost, she circled them, afraid they would see her, wanting to see them, wanting to be sure. It was them, all right, small figures in an expansive, windowless chamber, faces illumined by the light of a fire. Lemuel was holding a plastic garbage bag open and Clarence was pulling out … they were hairy, with pink faces, big ears, dead, half-closed eyes. Monkeys. Little monkeys, at least a dozen, easily more. Clarence was wearing rubber gloves and throwing the monkeys into a furnace like they were cordwood. Each one landed on the one before it, smoked, sizzled, blistered, then flashed into flames, the belly swelling, then bursting with steaming entrails.

She’d never been so afraid. She screamed …

Someone else screamed, there was a group shout and gasp as something like concrete smacked her in the side of the face, on her shoulder, her hands, her side. It hurt.

She was shaking, sick inside, whimpering. She wanted to run.

People were talking, murmuring, rustling. Chairs were squawking on a floor. She was waking from a dream, tuning in to …

Hands touching her, gently turning her. She saw Mr. Collins’s face, then Seamus’s face, both blurry, full of concern, a ceiling fan and its afterimages fluttering above them. Now Roger and Abby leaned and looked at her, reaching like a distressed mom and dad. “Easy now,” said Mr. Collins. “Give yourself time.”

She realized she was looking up and they were looking down. The concrete that had hit her was the tiled floor, and she’dhit it.

“Is she all right?” someone said.

She jolted, looked about. Was she safe? Was it a dream?

“Oh, her nose is bleeding,” said someone else.

The floor still felt like it was moving.

“That had to hurt.”

“Incredible!”

“Look, you can see there aren’t any wires or anything.”

“Maybe they all broke.”

“How didshe do it?”

“Is this part of the act?”

Megan and Myron were busy with a broom and towels, cleaning up spilled drinks and some broken dishes on the floor. A lady was saying “… don’t know, it just went sailing off the table.”

Cheryl from Pinehurst gave Mr. Collins a paper napkin, and he put it to Eloise’s nose. Eloise could feel the texture of the paper and the warm blood soaking into it, both real enough. She held the napkin in place, and with some helping hands managed to raise her head, then her body, and sit up.

The good folks broke into whoops and applause, as if she were a fallen quarterback.

It was over? She knew it was. She remembered these faces, remembered being here, remembered where she planted Burt and who got the spinning quarters and who kept winning the coin toss and the name of the lady—Tracy—who did the card box trick with her and Chuck the miner who got the magic coffee cup. Burt hid in Cindy from Kellogg’s handbag. She’d been here. She’d done her whole act.

The levitation was the only thing that was still a little foggy, as if she hadn’t really been herewhen she performed it.

She met the gaze of all those eyes full of wonder, astonishment, and concern. The show. She hadn’t closed it. Forcing a smile—it hurt—and still holding the red-blotched napkin to her nose, she asked, “Did I do it?”

“Oh, yeah,” they all said, clapping, looking at each other, looking back at her.

She got her feet under her, and Mr. Collins, Seamus, and Roger helped her stand. Abby was already behind the counter, getting some ice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Eloise Kramer!” Seamus announced, and the folks gave her a fresh wave of applause.

“Some kind of act,” said Bruce, a senior at NIC, and his girlfriend, Julie, shook her head.

“Well, that’s live entertainment,” said Mr. Collins. “Thanks a lot, everybody!”

Eloise waved with her free hand and called a muffled “Thank you!” while Mr. Collins and Seamus helped her hobble behind the counter and into the pantry. There were a few little claps here and there, but mostly the folks had to chatter. Word of this would be everywhere.

Roger brought in a chair and they all helped her into it, fussing, dabbing, acting medical.

Roger passed his hand over her eyes. “Pupils are good.”

Seamus lifted her right hand. “Any pain here?”

“Sure,” she answered.

“Can you move it?” asked Mr. Collins.

She waved at them.

“She’s just shaking!” said Abby as she brought in a Ziploc bag filled with ice and helped Eloise press it to her face.

“That was quite a spill you took,” said Roger.

“Did you lose control?” asked Seamus. “Is that what happened?”

She drew a breath to answer, but first realized there was no answer she could be sure of, and then realized there was no answer she could tell them. She let the breath quiver out of her without a word and repositioned the ice pack. Don’t let them know. Go with it, live with it, act normal somehow. Be Eloise.But she hurt so much, inside and out, and she was so scared.

“She never tells us anything,” said Roger. “Magicians!”

“Well, whatever you did, don’t do it again,” said Abby.

Abby was right. She was shaking and she couldn’t stop. “I killed the show …” she said, looking for Mr. Collins. “Did I kill the show?”

But Mr. Collins had bolted through the curtain as if chasing somebody.

Dane had no idea who that guy was. Maybe Eloise knew and never told him because it was one more little secret of hers, but Dane didn’t want him getting away without their meeting each other and discussing what he’d been doing on that computer all through Eloise’s performance.

Dane had paid the fellow little mind at first, wanting to watch Eloise and see how she might do being herself, or nearly herself, for the first time. She was off balance at first, caught between two styles, but interacting with the folks gradually brought out the class and sass, that endearing feminine side he’d always known was there and she just had to discover. The more she found her stride the more naturally she could charm, enchant, tease, and play the twinkle-eyed foil of her ornery coins, cards, and tennis balls. The folks loved it.