Gerald peeled back a corner of his avocado costume to scratch his nose. “That’s the snack schedule. You’ll be on set for 72 hours. No sleep. Only gas-station sushi and the silent judgment of a small rodent.”
"I did," I lied. The sides had been a single page of stage directions reading: [Character enters. Exits. Regrets everything.]
“Stage four: Depression,” the trio said in unison.
I sat back down. Not because I wanted to. Because my body had entered a state of shock.