I seek out Derry but find Barry resting against the refreshment bar, surveying the crowd in hopes someone does something inappropriate so he can have the pleasure of dealing with it. Every time his fists flex, his biceps and pecs compete over which can best imitate rock. Spoiler alert! It’s a stalemate.

The instant Kiley’s lips part, I forget all about the gun show. Derry was right. Her voice booms in contrast to her small size. The first song is upbeat, titled Funhouse Mirrors, detailing kept secrets. The irony isn’t lost on me. I’m full of those. The lyrical contradictions are as fitting as the transitions. She sings straight to my soul. Not just mine, either. We’re all mesmerized in solidarity. The crowd is feeding from every note, steadily circling in. My rising temperature creates a heat shield that gets people backing up to a respectable distance if they get too close.

Kiley isn’t limited to punkish talent. She shifts into song two, Weeping Angels, a moving piece that has the fans swaying to a steady rhythm. The range transition, while extreme, is equally hypnotic. This one is as sad as the title indicates, speaking of choking down lies but coming back for more. We are the hollow. We are the empty. Opened up and soul left bleeding. The girl is a siren, and her talent is boundless.

She moves into a classic rock style ballad for song three, announced as Black Cherry Kool-Aid. She hits the highs using gratuitous flash, virtually swallowing the mic. Hitting the lows brings the crowd down next to her. Having “Black” in the name, I don’t anticipate light lyrics, yet dark as they are, they still lighten the atmosphere. More contradictions.

The pieces are all original. There’s only one thing missing. She lacks a band. The sound comes from the machine she and Derry were fiddling with prior to the show. It doesn’t detract from her vocals, but instrumental accouterment would enhance the performance. Declan would love this. I resist the urge to check if he texted me. What steels my resolve? Tally. I guarantee she’s blowing up my phone, which is why I set it to silent after the first strike. I can’t navigate her right now. I don’t have the bandwidth.

By the fourth song, my thermometer is reading dangerously high levels. I clench my fists at my sides and try, unsuccessfully, to will away the sparks igniting my veins. The music is affecting me in conjunction with the people overload. Derry, in particular. Thankfully, my radiation hasn’t put him off. Nor has the sweat running rivers down my back. These days, damp is my default setting.

I tamp down on my natural instinct to engage my robot since my mission here is being discovered. Dance, Superego suggests. Motion is good, remember?

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Man, she’s nailing the helpful advice. Guess she saved the best for last. I listen to her, finding my rhythm to the music. It helps at first, but when Kiley slides into a slow number, the willful sparks let loose again. I look around self-consciously, relieved to see I’m not the only one so strongly influenced by the performance. Everyone’s experiencing their own sort of lack of control. Not only that, they’re all staring unblinkingly at the stage as though Kiley is guiding their actions with her voice. They’re pushing up against the platform to the point I actually get a bit nervous for her. Will they rush the stage?

Sensing my concern, Derry directs my body with his. Others follow suit, backing off from the stage to find their own dance partners. He slides his hands along the undersides of my arms until our fingers link. The heat that was coming dangerously close to the surface does the opposite of what I expect. It recedes.

We carry on for three additional songs, separating when the tempo increases and rejoining when it slows. Each time we connect, the fire is contained. Unfortunately, it’s not diminishing. It’s at the beginning of another slow number that I panic. Derry’s no longer behind me.

I pull my phone out, hoping for a viable distraction from the searing flame scorching its way to the surface. Even a Tally tantrum beats catastrophic meltdown.

U have 2 secs 2 tell me where U R—Tally

U heard her—Declan

Oh, good, they did a group chat. That’s a big time save on relaying information. Dim side: Declan’s message was twenty minutes ago. I’ve lost my ally, Derry’s missing, and my fire demands release. My only hope is someone is here, someone has been watching, and that someone is a Sumair.

I shove through the crowd, still swaying hypnotically to the music behind me. Spotting the emergency exit door, I laugh at my own expense. It’s definitely an emergency. With any luck, my supposed enemy will follow me outside to strip me of my spark before it explodes. Pyrotechnics display, indeed.

Once I’m free from the main group, I press forward in a near run to the door. My life, their lives, depends on me splitting this tinderbox pronto. I’ve taken a foolish risk, albeit intending to save them. I didn’t consider what I’d do if the potential explosion came prior to a Sumair arriving. This isn’t the BBQ dinner I had in mind.

The silver release bar on the door is a beacon of hope shimmering against the artificial stage lights. I train my eyes on it. I have to get there, have to escape. I reach for it, but my fingertips are warped and melty. It’s like looking at a roadway in the blistering heat.

I’ve barely touched the handle when someone steps out of the darkness beside me, grabs hold of my hands, and pulls me back with them, all in one swift, final movement. I have no doubt who it is. No, what it is. It’s the end of everything I’ve come to know as normal in the last few weeks. It’s my executioner.