“I’m qualified,” he said.

“That isn’t the same as an independent inspection,” Elena replied.

June looked at her brother. “Tell them why you moved the stop.”

Arthur stared at the painted panels. His anger seemed to drain away, leaving something smaller and more tired.

“The ending looked wrong,” he said. “The walls stopped too far apart. The children were supposed to see a ship closing around them, then opening into stars. There was too much empty space. I thought I could improve it.”

“You could have changed the scenery,” June said.

“We had no time.”

“Then we could have delayed the show.”

“You don’t remember how much pressure there was.”

“I remember exactly. I was there.”

Arthur rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t think anybody would get hurt.”

Benjamin, who had driven from Akron after Lily’s call, stood near the entrance. Nobody had noticed him arrive. He walked forward slowly, one hand gripping the strap of a canvas bag.

“I believe you,” he said. “I don’t think you wanted me hurt. But you told me I ruined the show. I believed that for years.”

Arthur’s face changed. “Benji.”

“Benjamin,” he corrected. “And I’m not here to forgive you on command. I’m here because I heard you were building the room again. I wanted to see whether you had learned anything.”

Arthur could not meet his eyes.

15. THE ROOM WITHOUT WALLS

The preview was canceled. The developer agreed to suspend work on the installation pending an independent safety review, and the demolition contractor postponed removal of the blue-room equipment long enough for it to be documented properly. Nobody celebrated. The victory felt too much like an interruption of another accident.

June invited Benjamin to walk through the old theater with her. He hesitated at the steel door. Lily offered to stay outside. Benjamin said he wanted everyone to come.

Inside, the painted stars looked less frightening in daylight. Nessa had arranged portable lamps along the platform, and the moving walls were secured. Benjamin walked around the room rather than through it. He stopped at the yellow line where children had once been told to wait.

“I used to think the walls were alive,” he said. “Afterward I thought they were angry.”

June touched the painted moon. “They were wood and wheels. The adults made the decisions.”

Benjamin looked at Walter. “Did you know the stop was missing?”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you say so when I asked?”

Walter swallowed. “I was afraid of what would happen to us. I thought silence would keep the theater open. I was wrong.”

Benjamin nodded, not because the answer satisfied him, but because it was finally an answer.

Lily stood near the center platform. She remembered her father lifting her onto his shoulders so she could see the stars. She had spent the last two days trying to recover his exact words, but memory offered only fragments: a smell of sawdust, a rough sleeve against her cheek, a warm hand closing around hers.