Lea slid her finger under the flap. Inside was not a script. It was a single, heavy-stock index card. On it, a set of coordinates. Below that, the same phrase: Places Zip.

Now, it just said: Scene.

“Yourself. Unfiltered. No song to hide behind. No character to filter your voice through. Just Lea. Four minutes. A monologue. And the orchestra will only play if you tell the truth.”

“Of course I do. It’s the fifteen-minute call. The last warning before the curtain goes up.”

She walked to the microphone. Her heels clicked on the cobblestones like a countdown.

She spoke.