"You have no idea how happy I am to see you here." My drummer, Kara, is a flurry of lavender hair, eyeliner, and head-to-toe black clothing as she hurries across an aisle to where I am, at the back of the theater we're using as our rehearsal space. She sets her drumsticks on top of an amplifier case that belongs to our band's bass player, Key, then wraps her arms around me in a hug.

It's the first time I've seen her or any of my band since our concert seven days ago. We've all texted this week, checking in and fumbling our way to some sense of normal, but messages and memes on a phone screen aren't the same as seeing all of them in person. I return Kara's hug with one of my own, infused with the love and gratitude I hope she can feel.

"I'll bet I'm just as happy to see you." I didn't know what to expect today, but physically being in the same room as my band is already melting away some of the tension in my body. My shoulders relax for the first time in what seems like an eternity. There's never been a week that has felt as long as this one.

"How are you doing?" Kara's eyes focus on my face. I did the best I could to conceal my new routine of spending the night dozing off for a few minutes and bolting awake over and over again, but it's difficult to hide. I'm exhausted.

"Sleeping is hard," I admit.

"How hard?"

"I wake up a lot." I don't disclose that I've had maybe three or four hours of broken sleep every night this week. Each time I drift off, images from The Domino, the media coverage, and the few memories of Dallas I have from school haunt my dreams and morph into what's become a recurring nightmare. I usually wake up thrashing and gasping for breath, damp with sweat, and with my sheets tangled around my body.

Kara tilts her head, examining me from another angle. "Have you seen your doctor? You can get something to help you sleep."

"I know." And I have, since Mom made me speak with my doctor again after the second night of not sleeping well. She recommended trying an antihistamine and relaxation techniques first, but she also called in a prescription in case I need it. The pill bottle is in the top drawer of my nightstand, still unopened.

My main resistance to taking a sleeping pill is losing the little control I have to awaken at will, since I'm fighting my own mind. I always wake up at the same point in the nightmare, terrified and on the verge of screaming. It takes a while to snap back to reality and recognize that I'm in my bed instead of on a stage, choking on smoke and covered in blood. I'm not sure I want to find out what would surface next in my dreams if something was keeping me asleep.

I'm getting used to muddling through each day with clouded mush for a brain and limbs that feel like they're moving through molasses. The zombie version of me doesn't have the stamina or the attention span to think very much, so that's the upside. It also keeps me from texting or calling Bowie. Asking about the continued sightings of him and Portia that fill my Twitter feed or finding out if we've broken up aren't things I want to deal with.

Dylan, my lead guitar player, spots me and calls out a greeting, then returns to tuning the strings of his prized Fender Mustang. I wave at him, then do a scan of the room. Key is setting up his gear, and of some of the dancers are stretching out and chatting with each other.

"Are you okay with rehearsing in those?" Mom appears at my side and points at the three-inch platform sandals adorning my feet. The rhinestones decorating the straps sparkle under the lights in the room. "I saw some other shoes in the car that are probably better if you're running through dance moves today."

"These are good for the first couple of songs when I'm just singing," I assure her. "I brought other shoes to change into when I'm with the dancers."

Mom is trying not to hover, but she's worried. The first clue was when she asked if I wanted to cancel today's rehearsal. It was tempting, but I told her no. The tour kicks off soon, and we need these rehearsals to nail down the set and the choreography.

The second hint happened about forty-five minutes ago, when she insisted on driving me here. The third one was her deciding to stay. Mom stopped coming to my rehearsals a while ago, once she was confident I could drive myself and made me swear to take surface streets and not the freeway.

All of this has taken a toll on her, too. She's normally a sleep-eight-hours-a-night type of person, but I suspect she's also become an insomniac. The extra coffee she's been drinking lately and the tired lines around her eyes and across her forehead give it away. I've also heard her wandering the house in the middle of the night a few times this week, but I haven't said anything.

"I'm going to do some more warm-ups," I announce. It's an excuse to leave her side and we both know it. I already ran through my vocal exercises during the drive here.

I find my own space to stretch out my muscles and do another round of scales, keeping to myself. This isn't typical behavior for me, since I'm usually the one holding things up while I talk to my band and goof off with the dancers. The entire vibe here feels different today. I'd describe it as cautious, or maybe uncertain. With the exception of Kara, everyone in my band is also focused on their own warm-ups and tuning, and the dancers stay huddled together in the small groups they were in when I arrived.

Rehearsals for our recent smaller-venue shows were much more casual than this one. Those were just the band and me, in our usual rehearsal space, running through songs. Today's rehearsal and the ones over the next couple of weeks are for a stadium and festival tour, and our music director, Lorna, is calling the shots. The band, the dancers, and me stay scattered throughout the room until Lorna claps her hands a few times and tells us to get going.

I leave my corner and walk up the steps to the stage. Kara, Dylan, and Key are already there in their stage positions. I take my spot at center stage, in front of the microphone, and try to hide the growing tremble in my hands.

We decided on the set list for this tour over a month ago. Lorna asks us to begin with the opening song. It's one from my first album that turned out to be a fan favorite during the tour that followed its release. We haven't played it live since last summer. Kara and Dylan talk about timing for when she should come in.

Dylan plays the first few chords. I concentrate on the music, mentally counting down. When I open my mouth and start to sing, something is off. My pitch is fine, and I get the words right, but my voice wobbles and my pace is too quick. I'm out of sync with everyone. It might be because the sound of my heart hammering in my ears nearly drowns out Kara's beat, or because I'm woozy all of a sudden. I probably should have eaten lunch.

I sneak a glance at Lorna. She's frowning, but she hasn't told us to start over yet. We continue, and I fight to find the right rhythm while my band tries to compensate for me. I'm relieved when we reach the end.

"We need to work on that one," Lorna calls out. I expect a full-blown critique, but she moves on. "Let's try 'Sunset' next."

The air races out of my lungs. "Sunset" is the song we were performing when the bomb went off at The Domino. I should have asked to strike it from the set before rehearsal, but I had other things on my mind. I consider saying something now but find myself unable to speak.

Key hesitates, but he plays the opening bass line anyway. Dylan comes in with guitar, tentative at first, and then Kara joins them both with drums. I can't sing, even though I try. My lips are glued together and there's pressure in my chest. It feels like my lungs are constricting. I blink a few times, trying to get it together, but everything in my field of vision blurs and I'm even dizzier than before. My hands shoot out in front of me and I grab the microphone stand to keep my balance.

I close my eyes and try to regain my center of gravity. Instead of helping, a montage of images flash like a strobe light through my mind. I want to yell at everyone to stop, or to play a different song, but my voice still isn't working.

"Deni?" Dylan asks.

I let go of the mic stand and cover my eyes with my hands, shaking my head. Tears spill from my eyes and roll down my cheeks. All of this is too much. I turn and walk off the stage without saying a word.

It's a miracle my shaking legs don't give out from under me as I descend the stairs from the stage to the floor and stumble down the center aisle. I push open the theater doors and sprint across the lobby. I don't stop until I'm outside the building, in the parking lot, where I collapse onto a bench and dissolve into tears.

No more than fifteen seconds pass before Mom is seated next to me on the bench. She touches my shoulder. "You don't need to rehearse today, you know. It's too soon."

She's right. My nerves are ragged and my emotions are raw, but Mira's words from a few days ago echo in my brain. Please don't stop singing because of this.

I swipe at my cheeks with the backs of my hands. "The tour is coming up fast. We need these rehearsals."

"You need time," Mom says. "You need to heal before you can think about being on tour."

"This isn't just about me," I argue. "I signed a contract. There are a lot of people depending on this tour for a paycheck, and thousands of fans have bought tickets."

A sad smile crosses Mom's lips. "You're so much like your father sometimes."

"I don't know what that means." I look down at my hands and see black mascara smeared across them, which means it's probably also all over my face. I'm a mess, and anyone can see it.

"Your dad put everyone else in his orbit first before he would even think about himself. I admired that in him, and I admire it in you, but it isn't healthy."

"Being at rehearsal isn't healthy? I thought I was supposed to try to do normal things." I'm sidestepping what she really means. The arch of her eyebrow warns me I won't get away with it.

"Normal starts with sleeping and eating." Mom's tone is stern. I open my mouth to protest and shut it again when I see the look on her face. "Don't tell me coffee and three grapes this morning is eating. You're existing on air."

"It was three grapes and two bites of toast I couldn't finish," I offer.

"Exactly my point." She leans against the back of the bench and studies me. "Getting right back on stage to perform in front of huge crowds almost every night this summer won't help you. If I wasn't convinced before, I am now. You aren't ready. You can hide what you're going through from a lot of people, but you're not fooling me."

I've never been able to get anything past her, so I don't know why it would be any different now. There are times I'd swear she can see into my soul.

I look down at my shoes, bright against the parking lot asphalt. "So what now?"

"We cut rehearsal short and go home," she replies. "You eat a real meal and try to sleep, even if it means taking something. I'll talk to Elton, the people who we need to at your label, and your band and crew. I'll hire a lawyer if it gets to that."

"What about Sawyer and Bowie?" I ask. "They're both on the tour, and this affects them, too."

"I doubt the tour will be canceled. The promoter and label will bring another act on if they need to, and Sawyer will understand."

She says nothing about Bowie, and I don't know if it's intentional. It's hard to judge how understanding he'll be, but this probably means I'm going to be the one to break the silence between us.

Mom squeezes my shoulder. "We left a few things inside. If you don't want to talk to the band now, I can meet you at the car."

"I'm coming with you." My band and I are like family. If I'm really canceling on this tour, I need to tell them myself before I do it, even if the thought of letting them down feels as horrible as my nightmares.

I get to my feet and follow Mom across the parking lot. The building door we're headed to opens before we get there, and Kara emerges.

"Hey," she says to me. "Can we talk for a minute?"

I'll be right in," I tell Mom.

"No rush. Take as long as you need." She continues walking to the door.

We watch her go inside, and then Kara turns to me. She doesn't ask if I'm okay, but she doesn't have to. She just witnessed the real answer to that question.

"I'm sorry about what happened in there," I say. "I needed a moment."

"What's this 'sorry' business about?" she scolds. "You're never apologizing for that again, especially not to me. I get it. We all do."

"At least you have it together enough to play. I could hardly stand there." I blow a strand of hair out of my face, not meeting her eyes.

"I might have been running through the motions, and same with Dylan and Key, but none of our hearts are in it right now. We could probably all use some time off, away from this."

I watch her fiddle with a silver ring on one of her fingers, twisting it back and forth. "How much time off?" I ask.

"Honestly? None of us would be upset if this tour doesn't happen. I'm not trying to pressure you or anything, since it's a big decision, but it's something I thought you should know."

I don't think she overheard any of the conversation I had with Mom, but I have to be sure. "Promise you're telling the truth, and not just trying to make me feel better?"

"I'll pinky-swear on everything. You know I wouldn't lie." She sticks out her hand and hooks my pinky finger with hers. "I already told you I took something to sleep the first few nights after what happened. I slept okay last night, but my anxiety is out of control most of the time. I've talked to my therapist four times already this week. Dylan and Key are struggling, too."

We unlink our fingers, and I put my arm around her shoulder. "Let's go inside and talk to the guys."

If everyone in my band is in the same headspace as me, then dropping out of the tour is the right thing to do. Now I just have to figure out how to tell Sawyer and Bowie.