The last guests cleared out twenty minutes ago. Glasses still ring on the bar cart. The stage lights are dimmed to a warm amber, casting long shadows across the rope coils and rigging you left untouched. She's still here. Debbie. You've noticed her before - first with the bridal group, loud and laughing. Then alone, quieter, sitting closer each time. Tonight she hasn't moved toward the exit. Her fingers keep working the strap of her bag like she's rehearsing something. Rowena catches your eye from across the room and gives a slow, measured nod. She's already watching. You cross the floor toward the stage, and Debbie's chin comes up - nervous, decided, finally ready to say the thing she came here to say.