I badly want to talk to Isabelle, but she is acting strange all of a sudden, as if she just drove two thousand miles to watch girls flounce around in tights. It’s not even a performance; it’s an audition, which means people aren’t sitting in seats waiting for the show. Instead there are long-legged ballerinas in tutus milling about everywhere, waiting for their turn.

When we step inside there is nowhere to put your eyes because wherever you look feels wrong.

Isabelle checks the schedule and says, “We might be too late,” then rushes down to the side stage door, gesturing for us to follow. We almost knock over a bony woman with wild salt-and-pepper hair standing just inside the door, but before she can topple over, Isabelle grabs her and they hug, whispering frantically to us that this is Abigail and we can all talk afterward. At the last second, a girl with big brown eyes runs up and Abigail smiles at her, saying, “Honey, you’re going to miss it, hurry up,” as she, too, steps inside and the lights dim.

The auditorium appears mostly empty, but it’s too dark to see anything except shadows and outlines. We’re backstage, so Abigail motions for us to peer through the thick velvet curtains. All I can see are the judges in the front row, their glasses perched on the ends of beaky noses. This must be a very big deal. You can feel the tension and the judges are the serious unsmiling kind, which is never a good sign.

The girl standing onstage is waiting for her cue. That’s Abigail’s niece, Isabelle mouths silently at me. We did just barely make it in time.

She is long and lean like every other dancer, in a simple pink skirt and white tights, her hands held in front of her, fingertips touching. She looks like a wax statue on display. It’s stifling hot. I imagine her melting drip by drip onto the stage. But then I remember I’m still wearing two jackets, so maybe it’s only sweltering for me.

I wonder if Jack is sweating, too. He’s slipped off to the side and into one of the aisle seats next to the girl Abigail had called “honey.” The music starts and the ballerina onstage moves as if pulled by an invisible string. She’s mesmerizing, sliding across the stage like butter, leaping and landing very lightly on the tip of one toe, determination written all over her face. She is not just dancing, she is telling the judges a story, and it feels urgent. I lean forward, afraid of missing a single word.

When the music stops I barely notice. Abigail’s niece is bowing in front of the judges and I am twisting the red ribbon around and around on my wrist, thinking of a pregnant girl I’d sat next to on a riverbank.

I push past Isabelle and Abigail, who are still clapping, and slam my way through the double stage doors, not caring that I knock a couple of bun heads out of the way. I rip off one of my jackets and storm toward the exits. I just need air.

“Hank,” Jack calls through the crowd, “Hank, guess who this is?” He is pointing at the brown-eyed girl, but then a sea of people push past and Jack is swallowed up by more bun heads and tutus.

The room grows blurry. Jack keeps calling my name, but I need to find an exit.

I’ve turned the wrong way again, back toward the hallway that led backstage. I’m like a rat in a maze. Another exit sign appears up ahead, but just before I reach it, a hand grabs the bottom of my jacket from behind. “Hank,” says Jack. “Stop.”

The girl beside him is holding the paper towel with the name “Selma” on it in Phil’s thick, black handwriting. I stare at the letters, remembering how Jack traced them all the way across the Yukon. Of course they would lead straight to a real live girl, if for no other reason than Jack believed they would. She is looking at him with brown mud-puddle eyes, and they are shimmering, as if he holds all the answers to the universe.

“This is Selma,” Jack whispers.

We all just stand there staring at each other.

Until the backstage doors fly open and four people walk out. Isabelle, Abigail, the ballerina, and…

“I KNEW IT,” Jack cries. “SAM, I KNEW YOU WERE ALIVE!”