The only light was a floodlight with no source, illuminating an average-looking man in glasses. He had a grey hoodie and green tracksuit pants with red lettering along one leg that stubbornly refused to make sense.

"Hello there."

He wore no shoes. I don't know why that, of all things, stuck out to me. "Who are you?"

"Well…" He scratched at his jaw, looking mildly disappointed. "I suppose you could consider me the stage manager."

I blinked, caught off-guard. "The what?"

"The production's been canceled, I'm afraid."

Something like shame squirmed unpleasantly in my gut. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's not your fault." He hurried to reassure me. "The director gave up, and no amount of pestering could get it picked up again. I managed to talk up a revision, though – y'know, streamline the parts, tighten the focus."

"What's the plan, then?"

"That depends. Are you willing to reprise your role?"

"Will I know who I am?" That was important to me, even as I couldn't explain why.

"Did you ever not?" He immediately replied.

I crossed my arms, mustering the most unimpressed glare such a smartass comment deserved.

"Okay, yeah, that sounded a lot cleverer in my head," He admitted lamely. He released a long sigh. "I won't lie to you, who you are has never concerned the director so much as what you are. But I promise: if you stick it out, you'll be proud of who you become. Deal?" He held out a hand up to shake.

I remember taking it. I remember watching his mouth move.

I don't remember what he said.