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temples become a high-pitched whine. There was a glass of water on the nightstand and I drank it, lay down, and closed my eyes as tightly as I could.
    I awoke the next morning with a roaring headache. My sheets were soaked in sweat and the room felt like a sauna. I opened the window and stuck my head out, but it made little difference. I sat on the bed, dizzy, and waited for the world to stop spinning. It didn’t. I lay down and fell back asleep.
    I awoke again around three in the afternoon feeling a little bitbetter. I washed and dressed as best I could and made my way outside. I had a flask for emergencies, and this felt like an emergency. Three long pulls of cheap whiskey seared my throat and things began to level out.
    Clara’s house was about a twenty-minute walk away. Winter was doing its best to gain a foothold, but for now the air was brisk and you could barely see your breath. I’d pulled on my coat and stuffed my pockets without thinking, and had to double-check I still had the two tickets Will had given me the night before.
    The initial pain of the day had retreated to a general sense of numbness. It felt like an improvement, and I resolved to establish a more optimistic outlook. I was alive, had my life in front of me, and was on my way to pick up the girl I loved and see the world’s greatest performer. What more could I possibly hope for in a day?
    Clara lived in an upscale neighbourhood with fashionable houses nestled back from tree-lined boulevards. Her father was in finance and had done well for himself as some sort of bigwig with the Bank of Montreal. They were wealthy, but she had never really let on exactly how well-off her family was. It didn’t seem like she much cared about that sort of thing.
    I’d met her father a number of times and was unable to tell whether he approved of me.
    “What does your father do, Martin?” he asked the first time she brought me home for dinner.
    “He’s in shipping,” I said, which wasn’t technically a lie. My father worked part-time for the Canadian Pacific Railway.
    Because today was Friday I thought it unlikely Clara’s father would be home. Before climbing the stairs to her front door I took a quick slug from my flask and then stashed it in my pocket.
    Clara answered the door, her hair flowing over her shoulders. I wanted to bury my face in it but didn’t. She smiled when she saw me, but her smile faded.
    “What’s the matter?”
    “Nothing,” I said. I reached into my pocket and retrieved our tickets. “Look what I have.”
    She took the tickets from my hand. “Where did you get these?”
    “Will.”
    “Wow,” she said. “I wonder who he had to kill.” She laughed and got her coat and scarf. She held my hand as we walked back toward the theatre, and she told me about an argument her mother and sister had and the kind of dog she someday hoped to own. Then she talked about a mathematical theorem she’d been studying.
    “How was your day?” she asked.
    I didn’t want to tell her that I spent it in bed. “It was fine. Not much happened.”
    The show didn’t start until seven, so we got a table at a restaurant a block away and ate a leisurely supper.
    “There probably won’t be any crate escapes,” she said. “He doesn’t do those anymore. He’s kind of gone off the audience challenges. I hope he does the Water Torture Cell, though. My cousin saw it in Philadelphia and said it was terrific. And the Needles. I have no idea how he does it.”
    I’d wondered that myself. In fact, I’d read about and heard his act described so many times that it felt like I’d witnessed it firsthand. I had in my mind a vivid image of a string of needles coming out of his mouth, pulled by an unbelieving member of the audience.
    We finished our meal and strolled the rest of the way to thetheatre. The night was clear and bright. The streets were full of people, and as we got close to the theatre Clara pulled me closer and squeezed my arm. I stopped walking,