As Malibu rounded the corner onto Market Street and started down the last block toward the Chesterfield, she saw an ambulance parked perpendicular to the curb in front of the theater. The lights on top were spinning red. Malibu kicked her stride up a gear, her eyes fixed on the ambulance’s blinking lights, and was struck by what felt like a stream of anguish flowing through the theater’s open front double doors and washing over her. The emotion was so overwhelming it practically knocked her over, and to continue making progress, she had to lean forward like she was pushing into a fierce wind.
After another dozen steps, an image of a face came into her mind. It was Margarita.
Then there was Margarita, in the flesh. She was walking backward out the theater, through the doors that were unde
