SKYE

Despite the chill outside tonight, the air in the arena is thick and hot. The entire floor is packed edge-to-edge and there doesn't seem to be an empty seat in the house. Kay told me tonight's crowd was about 17,000 people. I couldn't even begin to count if I tried. From beside the stage, the people in the bleachers look like tiny grey dots.

"You've been amazing, Memphis!" Jacks shouts as the guitar begins. He usually ends his encore set with this song; it's a crowd favorite that everyone always goes wild for. The audience hoots and hollers in recognition.

I snap a few shots as he reaches into the crowd and touches the hands of several fans. One fan practically latches onto his hand, but he manages to slip from her grasp with a bit of a tug.

I don't know how he does this every night—everyone grabbing at him and trying to get a piece of him—it would drive me insane. It's like he's being mobbed by zombies who all want a piece of his flesh, yet he just shakes it off with a smile.

He'd probably be great in an apocalypse.

I feel a quick push to my back and I huff, scowling as I attempt to ignore the overzealous fans beside me. Since I'm in the photography pit, it's practically impossible for the attendees to accidentally push me, so when it happens I know it's done on purpose.

"Get out of my way!" a high voice shouts behind me. I just roll my eyes and keep doing my job.

Teenagers.

In a flash, I feel a sharp tug at the back of my head. Everything suddenly blurs as the room shifts and I struggle to make sense of what's happening. The sounds from the stage and the audience all merge into a singular hiss—an overwhelming wave of homogenized sound crashing around me. My heartbeat throbs in my ears as my tailbone hits the ground with a painful thunk.

I find myself on the floor in front of the barrier. Two bouncers rush over and I see one hover above me, offering to help me up. He reaches out a hand, but I instinctively recoil and he steps back. I try to breathe in but my lungs feel like they can't expand and I panic.

I need to get out of here.

I scramble to my feet and scan the arena for an exit. I run out of the guarded section and start pushing through a thick sea of people as I frantically dash for the glowing green exit sign ahead. Despite my increasingly heavy breaths, I feel like I'm not able to take in oxygen. My skin is on fire and my throat tightens. My elbows swing out and I do whatever I can to clear my way through.

I have to get out of here.

Get out.

Get out.

Get out.

JACKS

I walk off stage to an unusual vibe. The typically enthusiastic post-show energy is more frantic and Kay isn't here to greet me. I walk up to the stage manager, whose attention seems to be focused on whatever message he's receiving through his earpiece.

He catches me in his periphery and turns with a smile.

"Great show, Jackson!" he cheers, patting me on the back.

"Thanks," I say, looking around the room. "Is everything okay?"

During my last song, it seemed like some sort of fight broke out in the corner near the stage, but as far as I could tell it was handled quickly. It's hard to see much with those bright lights in my face, so when bad things do go down, I usually don't really know the details until after the show.

"Yes, everything's fine. There was a small crowd control issue, but venue staff handled it and the people who caused the problem were escorted out."

"Oh, okay, thanks."

I head down the staircase into a narrow hallway beneath the stage. A group is huddled in the corner talking, and as they turn to me, I recognize a few faces—it's Kay, Roman, and a woman I don't recognize. They all seem a bit concerned.

What's going on? Why is Roman here so late after his set?

By this time, Roman is usually dressed down and relaxing in his trailer.

"We have everyone on staff looking for her. We just have to wait until the crowd clears," the woman says.

Who?

"What's up, Kay?" I ask, an obvious unease in my voice.

"Hey, Jacks... So I'm sure everything will be fine-" she begins.

That's never a great way to start a sentence.

"There was an incident involving one of your staff members," the other woman says. I now recognize her as the venue manager I met earlier. "I promise you our team is handling it."

"Some woman attacked Skye and pulled her down," Roman chimes in.

My chest tightens and I bring my hand to my forehead, lacing my fingers back into my hair and gripping.

"Fuck," I say, closing my eyes for a moment. "Where is she? Is she okay? Is she with the medical team or..."

My words fade as I read their expressions—concern, anxiety, sadness. There's more to this story than they're telling me.

"We're looking for her right now," the venue manager says. "Security confirmed she was conscious and appeared to be uninjured when she walked away, but we're not sure where she went."

Looking for her.

Walked away.

I'm struggling to process what they're saying.

"Wait, you lost Skye?" I ask. "You don't know where she is?"

Kay's uncomfortable expression confirms it.

"The guard out front said she didn't come backstage and the two who were there when it happened said she went out toward the crowd. She's not answering her phone, I'm not sure if she has it on her."

"I'm telling you, she's got anxiety or something," Roman says, looking at Kay. "It's the same thing that happened in the pool."

She nods and rubs her forehead.

"I've gotta go out there," I say, turning on my heel and heading toward the arena door.

I feel a tug on my shoulder—it's Roman, holding me back.

"If we go out there before the crowd clears, we're gonna start a riot. You and I both know it. We'd make it worse, not better."

A restless energy crawls through my bones, but my logical side prevails and stops me. As much as I hate to admit it, he's right.

I can't go out there, neither of us can. We'll be mobbed.

"Fuck!" I curse, leaning my forehead onto the wall beside me.

"I'm sure she's fine, Jacks," Kay says, resting a hand on my back. "We've radioed all the venue staff. They're all keeping an eye out for her. She probably just ran to the bathroom."

I want to believe it's that simple, but I doubt it. After that night at the pool, I know Skye has something going on with her, I just don't know what it is. She didn't want to tell me, and at the time I didn't want to push, but now I wish I had. Now she's going through something alone and I'm completely in the dark.

A deep, muffled voice comes through Kay's radio and we all turn toward the sound. She lifts it up to her mouth and speaks into it.

"Say that again?" she asks.

I can only make out brief, fuzzy chunks of what he's saying.

"Found her... alley and... approach..."

Kay nods a few times before saying, "Thank you. Keep the alley clear and we'll be there in a moment."

I expect her to try and discourage me from coming along, but instead she just gives me a nod and starts to walk.

*****

We step into the alley and are greeted by a somber-looking man in a security uniform. He's tall and thin, probably no more than 19, with a barely grown-in blond mustache. The doorway where we're standing is the only lit section, and everywhere else is just barely visible in the low moonlight.

"She seems alright, but she didn't look like she wanted us to approach her, so we waited for you," he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. His eyes lead us to a small figure sitting at the base of the wall about 20 feet from us. Even in the dark, I can recognize Skye's silhouette with her arms wrapped around her knees.

I look at Kay with questioning eyes and she simply nods, urging me forward. I nod and take a deep breath before walking over.

When I'm just a few feet away, her whole body flinches and she pulls back.

"Hey Skye," I say softly. "It's me. I'm just checking on you, are you okay?"

She looks up at me, the low light reflecting off her tear-filled eyes.

"I- I'm sorry-" she says softly, rocking back and forth as her body shakes.

"Hey, it's okay." I crouch down to her level.

"I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for?" I ask, but she just shakes her head in response.

It's almost painful to see my bubbly, talkative girl suddenly go silent. I reach out to rest a hand on hers but she looks at me wide-eyed and frozen, so I pull back.

"How'd you end up out here?"

"I had to leave."

Her voice is soft and hollow, as if her body is here but her soul is gone.

She had to leave.

That's what happened before too. She needed to get away from the situation, whatever it was.

"Where were you trying to go?"

She just shakes her head again, taking in a broken breath.

A dingy, dark alley wouldn't exactly be my first pick for refuge, but she seems to have found herself here somehow. It must have seemed safer than what she was running from.

I pause for a moment.

She ran because she needed to go somewhere she felt safe. What makes her feel safe?

I start to hum the tune to an old N3XT song.

♫ "...so underwater, drowning in a dream

I don't need no air to breathe

So lost in wonder, sinking underneath

I only need one thing" ♫

She looks at me and I start to see a glimmer of something behind her eyes. I keep singing softly.

♫ It's you, it's always you

I need you to catch my breath

I must confess, I do ♫

On the last line, I hear her voice chiming in with mine. I smile at her and open my arms for a hug. She lunges forward, wrapping her arms around me as she sniffles.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to... I didn't think this would happen."

"Whoa, whoa," I say, backing up just enough so I can look her in the eyes. "What are you sorry about?"

"I just took off in the middle of your last song. I'm so sorry, I-"

"Don't be ridiculous, Skye. You're allowed to have a bad moment, especially when an audience member physically assaults you."

I hold my palm up and rest it against her cheek, rubbing back and forth with my thumb as I look for any obvious injury. She seems more or less unscathed by the incident.

"It just... it's this thing that happens sometimes. It's my..." She pauses as her eyes meet might, almost searching for something. "I have PTSD."

I nod for her to continue.

"We think I had an abusive childhood, but I don't remember too much of it. The parts we do know from the state records seem pretty bad... It's not like soldier PTSD or anything. It's actually called CPTSD—the C is for complex. So like... some people will have a big scary moment that messes up their brain, but I had a bunch of little scary moments that messed up my own brain, just... differently."

I can't help but smile as she starts to ramble.

She's back.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I'm not explaining this well. I've never actually told anyone about this before."

"You've never told anyone? What about Greg?"

She shakes her head no.

"I just never felt comfortable telling him."

"Well I'm glad you told me."

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