7

Within seconds of the announcement, half the moviegoers rush the exits, packing through the single door, screams of panic negating any direction from the manager. An elderly couple sits at the end of the next row, their faces fear-washed. In the back of the theater, two groups scuffle while others push their way through the lone exit. An all-too-calm woman coaxes three young children to sit down, though they moan and cry to leave. Several patrons run to the front exit, but the two massive bodyguards shove them back as Patrick pulls you out of the theater.

You rush into the lounge, and Patrick slams the door behind him. "Holy crap! What the hell was that? So unprofessional. That's what I get for scheduling a screening in a Podunk toilet. Chipper Ridge should be called Crapper…something that rhymes with ridge."

The exit door rattles, and you hear the roar of a motor, the screech of tires, and a loud howl that echoes through the steel, shrill like an animal lost in a deep cave.

"Hey David, it's me," Patrick yells into his phone. "This place is a bust. They suspended the film. What? What? I don't care what's going on in the world—this is about the opening of Tavon Agosto .'s movie, moron."

The door pounds, dust and plaster rippling from around the edges of the frame. Patrick snaps his fingers, covers the phone with his hand, and says, "I bet it's the driver outside. The town car." He points to the door.