Chapter 4
The production crew, attired in black, swarmed as the hum of their chatter magnified in the auditorium. Some were on stage, adjusting the mic stands, while others laid cables and tested the lights.
Standing at the bottom of the stage, a man spoke into a walkie-talkie while he watched the control room at the back.
Through all of this, a familiar man who looked like Little Orphan Annie and Opie's son, rushed up to me while I clipped a pass to the lapel of my jacket.
His headset with a mouthpiece attachment was swallowed by his curly orange 'fro. He wore black jeans and a faded, black polo shirt. That was Ben Finley, the runner.
"Hey, Carolyn. The water delivery still isn't here," his eyes were saucered and his forehead puckered.
"What's the holdup?" I asked, already crossing
