By the time I realize the room has gone quiet, I'm still playing.
The green room is never actually green. Ours is this faded institution-beige with motivational posters peeling at the corners and a couch that smells like old fries. It's loud in here—normally. Horn players over-warm up, drummers tap on every surface, somebody's always doing vocal runs in the corner for a set they're not on.
Right now, my fingers are on automatic, running the same four-bar riff up and down the fretboard, muscle memory looping. The amp is off; I don't need it. The notes exist in my head anyway, a pattern I can feel in my hands even without sound.
Then, slowly, the noise around me thins.
First it's just a dip. A couple of kids stop talking mid-sentence. Someone's laugh dies out halfway. A keyboard player's chords trail off instead of resolving.
I look up.
Everyone's heads are turned toward the hallway door. The little strip of light at the bottom pulses brighter, darker, like people are passing in front of it in a hurry.
"What's going on?" one of the sax guys asks, his reed still in his mouth.
"Dunno." The drummer closest to the door stands, sticks dangling from his fingers. "Thought I heard—"
A siren cuts through the air, distant but getting closer. It warps as it bounces off the school walls, that Doppler bend that makes my stomach lurch even though I'm not the one it's coming for.
"Someone call the cops on the middle schoolers?" another kid jokes weakly. No one laughs.
A teacher sticks his head in—Mr. Willis from math, staff lanyard swinging. His eyes sweep the room.
"Everyone stays here," he says. "Stay calm. We're handling a small situation. Do not go into the music wing. Do you understand?"
A low buzz of questions rises immediately.
"What situation?"
"Was there a fight?"
"Is it a fire?"
"Is it the wiring? I told them—"
Mr. Willis lifts a hand. "It's under control. Just sit tight. They'll announce if there's anything you need to worry about."
His gaze lands on me for a half-second longer than on anyone else, like he's checking I'm not about to bolt. I hold it, nod once.
Under control, I think. Sure.
The door shuts. The siren swells, then levels out, then drops as the vehicle stops somewhere outside.
My fingers find the strings again without asking me. Fifth to root, root to fifth, sliding up one fret each bar. The pattern feels wrong now, like it's rubbing against something out of tune.
I unplug the cable that isn't actually plugged into anything and coil it, just to do something with my hands.
"What do you think it is?" my drummer, Jason, asks. He's shorter than me but louder, usually. Right now his voice is small. "You think it's one of the little kids? My sister's out there with the drumming group, man."
"She's probably fine," I say. "If it was a kid, they'd clear the auditorium."
"How do you know?" he presses.
I don't. I just… map the sound. The siren stopped, but the murmur of the crowd beyond the walls hasn't exploded into panic. No stamping feet, no mass exodus. Through the ceiling vents, I can still pick up the muffled thump of the current act's bass line.
"If they pull the plug," I say slowly, "you'll hear it. All at once. Not like this."
Jason doesn't look convinced, but he nods anyway.
My phone buzzes in my hoodie pocket. I fumble it out. A text from my mom: Got a good seat! Proud of you already. Don't forget to eat something real, not just vending machine junk.
I stare at the words until they blur, then shove the phone back in. "Something real" tastes like cardboard right now.
On the other side of the wall, there's a new sound: feet pounding. Not the rhythm of dancers, not the clatter of kids messing around. This is heavier. Adults.
Without really deciding to, I'm on my feet and moving before the thought finishes forming. Jason grabs my sleeve.
"Willis said to stay," he reminds me.
"I'm just going to the door," I say. "I won't go down the hall."
He hesitates, then lets go. "Come back if they start our slot without you. I'm not doing your parts alone."
"You'd improvise," I say.
"Exactly why you need to be there," he shoots back.
I push the green room door open just enough to look.
The hallway feels narrower than usual, crowded with too many bodies trying to look like they're not in the way. A couple of teachers stand spaced out like human barricades between the band rooms and the main corridor, palms out.
Down toward the music wing, I catch a glimpse of red—jackets, not lights. Paramedics. A stretcher wheel clips the edge of the wall as they hurry past.
I step out before Mr. Willis can notice, keeping to the side.
"Reyes," he says anyway, spotting me. "Back inside, please."
"That's—" My throat tightens around the name. "That's the way to the music room."
"Yes," he says carefully. "And you don't need to be there right now."
"But my amp's in there," I blurt. Stupid. Priorities. "My guitar case. I left—"
"It'll still be there later," he says. "Go back."
Over his shoulder, in the slice of space between two teachers, I see them.
The stretcher comes through the double doors from the music hallway like it's being birthed. The paramedics' faces are professional-blank, focused. Between their shoulders, for a split second, I see Rhea.
Her hair is half-down, one side matted where the neck brace presses against it. There's tape on her arm, an IV bag swaying. An oxygen mask covers her mouth and nose, fogging with each shallow breath. Her eyes are closed. Her lashes look too dark against her skin.
My hand finds the doorframe without asking. The wood digs into my palm.
"Rhea," I say, but it doesn't even come out loud enough to reach myself.
Mr. Shah is right behind the stretcher, his tie loosened, his face pale in a way I've never seen. He talks quietly to one of the paramedics; words drift back in snippets.
"…equipment fault… electrician's already on call…"
"…we'll notify her parents from the hospital…"
"…yes, the outlet near the—"
A murmur runs through the kids in the hall like a wave. Someone whispers, "Oh my God, is that—" and someone else shushes them too late.
Ms. Ortega walks alongside the stretcher, one hand on the rail. She catches my eye as they pass, her expression softening for half a second.
"She's breathing," she says, even though I didn't ask. "They're taking her to County."
Breathing. The word hits a beat late, like a cymbal after the downstroke. I nod, something in my chest loosening enough to hurt.
"Back to your rooms, please," Shah calls, voice stretching to cover the space. "We had a minor accident with some equipment. Everyone else is safe. The show will continue once we've ensured all systems are secure."
An accident.
The word slides under my skin, searching for somewhere to lodge. It finds the place immediately.
Two hours ago. Music room. Me, wedging my guitar case in the door so I wouldn't have to keep fishing the key out of my pocket.
"This door never shuts right," I'd said when Rhea frowned at me, leaning on the frame with her planner against her chest.
"That's because you keep abusing it," she'd replied, half-joking, half not. "Noah, if someone sees you propping it, they're gonna have a coronary."
"Then you should put a better sign on it," I'd shot back, toeing the case so the door widened. "Or fix the stupid latch."
She'd rolled her eyes, but she hadn't kicked the case away. Instead, she'd slipped inside, snagged one of the spare mics, and said, "We need to talk after your set, okay? For real."
"About what?" I'd asked, riffing idly on the unplugged guitar in my lap.
She'd looked at me then in a way that made me mute the strings with my palm. All the leader stuff, the committee jokes, the "Rhea runs the world" performance had dropped away. Underneath was just a tired seventeen-year-old with too many secrets in a notebook.
"About the room," she'd said. "And… other things. Later. I'll write it down if I have to. Just—don't disappear after your slot. Promise?"
"I won't," I'd said. "You're pathologically incapable of letting me leave without debriefing anyway."
She'd smiled, quick and crooked. "True."
Then someone had yelled her name from the hall, and she'd gone, and I'd told myself "later" meant infinite time stretched out after my set, after the show, after everything.
Now, "later" is being loaded into the back of an ambulance.
The stretcher wheels squeak over the threshold. The automatic doors at the end of the hall wheeze open, letting in a gust of cold night air that smells like rain on asphalt and car exhaust. For a second, the siren wail spikes as they start it up again, then the doors shudder closed and it becomes muffled, distant.
Mr. Willis's hand lands on my shoulder. "Reyes," he says gently. "Back inside. Please."
I swallow against the lump in my throat.
"Is it my fault?" I hear myself ask. My voice is very small. "The… door. Earlier. I left it—"
His fingers tighten just a little, like he wants to shake me and doesn't. "No. This is why we have policies and inspections and a nurse and emergency plans. Sometimes things happen." He pauses. "If facilities has questions about the room later, they'll ask. Right now, you being here won't change anything."
He's wrong. It already changed everything. But he's also right; me standing here watching the echo of her leave won't pull it back.
I let him steer me toward the green room. The door shuts behind us, cutting off the view of the emptying hall.
Inside, everyone talks at once.
"Is she okay?"
"Was that Rhea Patel?"
"They said accident. Like, electrical?"
"My mom's gonna freak if she hears this."
"Do you think they'll cancel the rest of the show?"
Cancel. The idea lands like a wrong chord. The program in my bag is full of Rhea's handwriting. Tiny notes about transitions, reminders to check mics, arrows from one act to the next. How do you cancel something she poured herself into like oxygen?
Jason shoves my guitar into my hands. "You saw her?"
"Yeah." The word scrapes.
"Is she…" He trails off.
"Breathing," I say, echoing Ms. Ortega. "They're taking her to the hospital."
He lets out a breath he's clearly been holding. "Shit, man. Okay. Okay."
Someone up the chain makes a decision. Ten minutes later, the PA crackles and Shah's voice announces, calm and warm, that there has been "a small equipment-related incident backstage," that "one of our student leaders is being evaluated out of an abundance of caution," and that "tonight's program will continue with a brief delay."
A small incident. Abundance of caution. Words that make it sound like she twisted an ankle, not… whatever this is.
Our slot gets bumped forward. "We're going now," Mr. Kline tells us, eyes still a little wild behind his glasses. "Before anyone changes their mind. You ready?"
No, I think.
"Yes," I say.
We line up in the wings. My guitar strap digs into my shoulder, heavier than usual. The stage feels different under my boots—not the usual vibrating anticipation, but something like walking onto ice you're not sure will hold.
The lights hit. The crowd claps, a little subdued, like word has seeped out through the seats that something's off but no one has details yet. Eli does a quick, toned-down intro for us that I barely hear. My fingers find the first chord because they have to.
We play.
Somewhere around the middle of the second song, my brain splits.
Part of me is counting like usual—one-and-two-and, watching for Jason's hands, for the cue from the keyboard. Another part is running a different timeline, overlaying it on top of the music.
Blackout at 7:32. Jazz trio after. The commotion in the hall. The siren. The stretcher.
I could mark it like measures in a chart. Bars of normal festival noise, then a sudden key change no one rehearsed.
After we come offstage, the adrenaline crash hits harder than usual. My hands shake as I unplug, wrapping the cable too fast so it tangles.
"You were good," someone says—one of the younger guitarists, eyes wide. "You barely even looked at your chart."
"Thanks," I say, feeling like I wasn't there at all.
I pack my guitar away on autopilot. The case latches with a soft click that sounds weirdly loud in my head.
We're not needed for the rest of the show. The next acts queue up, the machine grinding back into something like motion. No one tells us to leave, but no one needs us either.
I drift.
At some point I end up in the far corner of the backstage corridor, the part near the loading bay where no one really lingers because it smells like dust and cold metal. There's a stack of folded risers here, a couple of rolled-up backdrops, and a narrow space between them where you can lean and not be in anyone's way.
I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the concrete, knees up, guitar case by my side like a silent dog.
My right hand won't stop tapping. Finger against thumb, thumb against finger. I change the rhythm—triplets, straight eighths, a pattern from one of our songs—just to prove I can.
In my hoodie pocket, something crinkles when I move.
I frown, dig in. My fingers close around folded paper, soft-edged from contact with fabric. For a second, I think it's the setlist I stuffed in there earlier.
I pull it out.
It's a square, folded twice over. The paper is thicker than printer stock, with faint blue lines. The top corner has a tiny flower doodled in it, the way someone draws when they're thinking at a meeting.
My stomach drops before I even unfold it.
Rhea's handwriting is distinctive. Round letters, sharp little hooks on the y's and g's when she's in a hurry. I'd know it anywhere.
My thumb hesitates on the crease. I try to track back. When would she have put this in my pocket? I don't remember. We haven't… we didn't really stop long enough—
Except earlier, in the music room, when she'd squeezed past my guitar to get to the piano and bumped my shoulder on purpose.
"Sorry," she'd said, laughing. "Personal space is a myth tonight."
I'd grinned and bumped her back. If she'd slipped a note into my hoodie then, I hadn't felt it over the strap, over the noise of my own playing in my head.
I unfold the paper.
Noah—
If we miss each other later, don't freak out, just do this:
Check the door log for tonight. Really check it. The times, not just the names.
Think about who knew you left it "never quite shut right."
Don't use the music room alone. Not tonight.
We'll talk after your set. Promise.
—R
I read it once. Twice. The words stay the same each time, but they hit different beats.
Door log. Times. Not just names.
Who knew about the door.
Don't use the music room alone.
If we miss each other later.
We already missed.
My brain does the thing it always does when a chart doesn't make sense—goes back to the beginning and overlays everything again.
Earlier this week: me, complaining about the stupid latch in front of half the band and whoever else was in earshot.
Yesterday: propping the door open during rehearsal, joking about saving time.
Today: shoving my case in the gap while Rhea watched, saying, "I'll fix it later."
Who heard. Who saw. Who logged anything.
On the other side of the wall, applause breaks out for something I didn't see. The sound is muffled, late, like it's traveling through water.
Rhea's flourish of a signature at the bottom of the note looks rushed. There's a tiny ink blot where the pen must have caught on the paper.
We'll talk after your set, she wrote.
There is no version of tonight where that sentence is still true.
My hand tightens around the note until the paper creases under my fingers.
For a second, a thought flashes through my head bright and unwelcome: What if this wasn't just an "equipment fault"? What if the door and the log and whatever she was worried about and her lying on that floor are all part of the same song, and I just haven't learned the bridge yet?
Then I shove it away. Too big. Too much. Too soon.
Everyone else is calling it an accident. That's the word Shah used, the word Mr. Willis repeated, the word Aanya will probably write on a form somewhere, in neat black ink.
Accident. Like tripping over a cable. Like a bad outlet. Like something you could've fixed if you'd thought about it five minutes earlier.
I smooth the paper out as best I can and fold it back up, smaller this time. It doesn't fit the same way.
Carefully, I slide it into the inside pocket of my guitar case, behind the pick holder. A place where it won't fall out if I move wrong, where it'll be close to something I can't imagine letting go of.
"After your set," she wrote.
The echo of that promise settles somewhere under my ribs, off-beat and insistent.
Out in the auditorium, the next act starts. The opening notes drift faint through the wall—some pop ballad in a key that's always just a little too high for the soloist.
I close the case with a soft click and rest my forehead against it, counting the seconds between each breath until the numbers stop meaning anything at all.